m  THE  CENSOR 


WYTHE  WILLIAMS 


Columbia  ©niberfiitp 

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LIBRARY 


GIVEN    BY 


GIFT  OF 
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MYROX  T.  HKHKMCK 

UNITED   STATES    AMBASSADOR   TO    FRAXCE 

From  a  hitherto  unpublished  dniwiny  by  Rover 


PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

THE  EXPERIENCE  OF  AN 
AMERICAN  NEWSPAPER  MAN  IN  FRANCE 


BY 

WYTHE  WILLIAMS 

PARIS  CORRESPONDENT  OF  THE  NEW  YORK  TIMES, 

OFFICIALLY  ACCREDITED  TO  THE  FRENCH 

ARMIES  ON  THE  WESTERN  FRONT 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

MYRON  T.   HERRICK 

FORMER  UNITED  STATES  AMBASSADOR  TO  FRANCE 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


GIFT  OF 
H.  W.  WILSON 

MAR  2  2   1929 


Copyright,   1916 
By  E.  p.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


3  0-0.91 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED   STATES  OF   AMEBICA 


*4      - 


TO  VIOLA 


PEEFACE 

Special  correspondents  in  great  numbers  have 
come  from  America  into  the  European  ^^zone  of 
military  activity,"  and  in  almost  equal  numbers 
have  they  gone  out,  to  write  their  impressions, 
their  descriptions,  their  histories,  their  romances 
and  songs. 

Other  correspondents  who  are  not  *^ special,'* 
but  who  by  the  grace  of  the  military  authorities 
have  been  permitted  to  enter  the  forbidden  terri- 
tory, and  by  the  favor  of  the  censor  have  been  al- 
lowed to  tell  what  they  saw  there,  have  entered  it 
again  and  again  at  regular  intervals. 

These  are  the  ** regular"  correspondents,  who 
lived  in  Europe  before  war  was  declared,  and  who 
during  many  idle  hours  speculated  on  what  they 
would  do  with  that  great  arm  of  their  vocation — 
the  cable — when  the  expected  hour  of  conflict  ar- 
rived. 

Few  of  their  plans  worked  out,  and  new  ones 
were  formed  on  the  minute — on  the  second.  For 
the  Grermans  did  not  cut  the  cable,  as  some  of  the 


PREFACE 

correspondents,  in  moments  of  despair,  almost 
hoped  they  would  do,  and  the  great  American  pub- 
lic clamored  insistently  for  the  ** news''  with  its 
breakfast. 

It  is  a  journalist's  methods  in  covering  the  big- 
gest, the  hardest  ** story"  that  newspapers  were 
ever  compelled  to  handle,  that  this  book  attempts 

to  describe. 

Wythe  Williams. 

Paris,  October,  1915. 


AN  ENDOESEMENT 
By  Geokges  Clemenceau 

Former  Premier  of  France. 

^^In  the  crowded  picture  which  this  American 
journalist  has  presented  we  recognize  our  men  as 
they  are.  And  he  pronounces  such  judgment  as 
to  arouse  our  pride  in  our  friends,  our  brothers 
and  our  children.  Such  a  people  are  the  French 
of  to-day.  They  must  also  he  the  French  of  to- 
morrow. Through  them  France  sees  herself  re- 
generate. 

*  ^  Of  our  army,  Mr.  Wythe  Williams  says : 

^*  ^It  seems  to  me  to  he  invincible  from  the 
standpoints  of  power,  intelligence  and  humanity.' 

^ '  Is  there  not  in  that  something  like  a  judgment 
pronounced  upon  France  before  the  people  of  the 
world!  Where  I  am  particularly  surprised,  I  ad- 
mit, is  that  the  eye  of  a  foreigner  should  have  been 
so  penetrating,  and  that  our  friendly  guest  should 
have  coupled  the  idea  of  an  *  imdncible '  army  with 
the  supreme  ethical  consideration  of  its  *  hu- 
manity. ' 


AN  ENDORSEMENT 

**Mr.  W>iho  Williams  is  right  to  proclaim  this, 
even  though  it  is  something  of  a  stroke  of  genius 
for  a  non-Frenchman  to  have  discovered  it.'* 
— (From  an  editorial  in  L'llomme  Enchaine,) 


LETTER  TO  THE  AUTHOR  FROM 
SENATOR  LAFAYETTE  YOUNG 

My  Dear  Willimns: 

I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  are  going  to  write 
about  the  war  in  book  form.  In  doing  this  you  are 
discharging  a  plain  duty.  You  have  been  in  the 
war  from  the  start.  You  have  studied  the  soldier 
in  the  trench,  and  out.  You  have  witnessed  every 
phase  of  battle.  The  war  is  in  your  system.  You 
are  full  of  it.  Therefore,  you  can  write  concern- 
ing it  with  inspiration  and  fervor. 

I  remember  our  long  marches  in  and  near  the 
trenches  in  Northern  France  in  April  and  May, 
last.  I  know  how  deeply  you  are  interested; 
therefore,  I  know  how  well  you  will  write. 

A  thousand  historians  will  write  books  concern- 
ing the  present  great  conflict,  but  the  real  his- 
torians will  be  the  honest,  independent  observers 
such  as  you  have  been. 

Newspaper  reports  will  be  the  basis  of  every 
battle's  history. 

Take  the  battle  of  the  Marne,  for  instance. 
Who  knows  so  well  concerning  it  as  men  like  your- 


LETTER  FROM  SENATOR  YOUNG 

self,  wlio  were  in  Paris  or  near  it  during  the  seven 
days*  conflict f 

The  passing  years  may  bring  dignified  his- 
torians who  will  compose  sentences  which  shall 
sound  well,  but  none  of  them  will  be  so  full  of  real 
history  as  your  volume  if  you  write  your  own  ex- 
periences. 

I  never  knew  a  man  freer  from  j^rejudice,  and 
at  the  same  time  fuller  of  enthusiasm  than  your- 
self. I  want  you  to  write  jour  book  with  the  same 
free  hand  you  write  for  the  New  York  Times, 
Forget  for  the  time  that  you  are  writing  a  book. 

I  am  pleased  to  know  that  you  have  been  with 
the  army  several  times  since  I  parted  company 
^\dth  you.  This,  with  your  experience  as  an 
ambulance  driver,  when  the  first  hostilities  w^ere 
on,  has  certainly  made  you  a  military  writer  worth 
while. 

I  count  you  to  be  one  of  the  three  best  and  most 
truthful  American  correspondents  who  have  been 
in  the  war  from  the  start. 

I  am  hoping  the  time  will  come  when  these  wars 
shall  end,  when  bright  men  like  yourself  shall  re- 
turn to  the  work  of  journalism  in  America. 

With  greatest  affection,  I  subscribe  myself, 

Lafayette  Young. 


TABLE  OP  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction  by  Mykon  T.  Herrick xiii 

PART  ONE 
THE  HECTIC  WEEK 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    The  Day 1 

II    The  Night 9 

III  Herrick 19 

IV  Les  Americains 31 

V    War 39 

PART  TWO 
THE  GREATEST  STORY 

VI    The  Actuality 49 

VII    The  Field  of  Glory 55 

PART  THREE 
THE  ARM  OF  MILITARY  AUTHORITY 

VIII    The  Field  of  Battle 73 

(A)  Sentries  in  the  Dark 

(B)  The  Wounded  Who  Could  Walk 

(C)  A  Lull  in  the  Bombardment 

IX    "Detained"  by  the  Colonel  ......     94 

X    The  Cherche  Midi 110 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XI    Under  the  Croix  Rouge 120 

(A)  Trevelyan 

(B)  The  Hue  Jeanne  d'Arc 

(C)  Those  from  Quesnoy-sur-Somme 

PART  FOUR 
WAR-CORRESPONDING  DE  LUXE 
XII    Out  with  Captain  Blank 145 

XIII  JOFFRB 157 

XIV  The  Man  of  the  Marne  and  the  Yser  .     .     .  172 
XV    The  Battle  of  the  Labyrinth 184 

XVI    "With  the  Honors  of  War" 193 

XVII    Sister   Julie,    Chevalier  of   the   Legion   of 

Honor 209 

XVIII    The  Silent  Cannon 226 

XIX    D'Artagnan  and  the  Soul  of  France    .     .     .  230 

PART  FIVE 
THREE  CHAPTERS  IN  CONCLUSION 

XX    A  Rearpost  of  War 245 

XXI    Myths 256 

XXII    When  Chenal  Sings  the  "Marseillaise"  .     .  264 


AN  INTRODUCTION 
By  Mykon  T.  Hebrick, 

Former  United  States  Ambassador  to  France. 

The  rigid  censorship  placed  on  journalism  upon 
the  declaration  of  war  in  Europe  brought  the  rep- 
resentatives of  the  American  press  into  close  re- 
lationship with  the  Embassy.  The  news  which 
they  brought  to  the  Embassy  and  such  news  as 
they  received  there,  required  unusual  discretion, 
frankness  and  confidence  on  the  part  of  all  con- 
cerned in  order  that  the  American  public  should 
receive  accurate  information,  while  avoiding  the 
commission  of  any  improprieties  against  the  coun- 
tries involved  in  the  great  conflict. 

In  this  supreme  test  the  American  newspaper 
representatives  appreciated  that  they  were  some- 
thing more  than  mere  purveyors  of  news;  they 
arose  to  the  full  comprehension  of  their  responsi- 
bility, and  were  of  invaluable  assistance  to  the 
Embassy,  and  through  it  to  the  nation. 

While  there  has  been  no  opportunity  to  read  the 
advance  sheets  of  this  book,  my  confidence  in  the 


INTRODUCTION 

character  and  ability  of  the  author,  begotten  in 
those  days  when  real  merit,  and  demerit  as  well, 
were  revealed,  makes  it  a  pleasure  to  write  this 
foreword,  and  to  commend  this  volume  unseen. 
(Si.ioied) 


Cleveland,  Ohio,  October  19th,  1915. 


A  FOEEWORD 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  European  war,  the  au- 
thor, who  was  then  stationed  in  Paris  as  the  cor- 
respondent of  the  Neiv  York  Times,  was  refused, 
with  all  other  correspondents,  any  credentials  per- 
mitting him  to  enter  the  fighting  area.  He  en- 
tered it  later,  immediately  after  the  battle  of  the 
Marne,  with  what  were  in  Paris  considered  suffi- 
cient credentials.  But  he  was  arrested,  returned 
to  Paris  as  a  prisoner  of  war  and  lodged  in  the 
Cherche  Midi  prison,  the  famous  military  prison, 
where  Dreyfus  was  confined.  He  was  released 
upon  the  intervention  of  Ambassador  Herrick,  but 
still  baffled  in  getting  to  the  front  as  a  war  cor- 
respondent, he  volunteered  for  service  in  the  Red 
Cross  as  an  orderly  on  a  motor  ambulance.  A  few 
of  the  descriptions  in  the  following  pages  are  writ- 
ten from  notes  made  during  the  two  months  he  re- 
mained in  that  service. 

At  the  beginning  of  1915,  the  author  was  offi- 
cially accredited  as  a  correspondent  attached  to 
the  French  army,  and  at  the  beginning  of  Feb- 


FOREWORD 

ruary  sent  to  his  })ap('r  the  longest  cable  despatch 
permitted  to  pass  the  censor  since  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  and  the  first  authentic  detailed  descrip- 
tion of  the  French  forces  after  the  battle  of  the 
^larne. 

Tlie  following  spring,  at  the  height  of  the  first 
great  French  olTensive  north  of  Arras,  the  famous 
ground,  every  yard  of  which  is  stained  with  both 
French  and  German  blood,  the  author  was  selected 
by  the  French  Ministry  of  War  as  the  only  neutral 
correspondent  permitted  there.  The  first  descrip- 
•tion  given  to  America  of  the  battle  of  the  Laby- 
rinth was  the  result. 

Since  then  the  author  has  made  a  number  of 
trips  to  the  front,  always  under  the  escort  of  an 
officer  of  the  Great  General  Headquarters  Staff, 
and  has  seen  practically  the  entire  line  of  the 
French  trenches,  up  to  the  moment  of  the  autumn 
offensive  in  Champagne.  He  was  the  first  Amer- 
ican correspondent  to  foreshadow  this  offensive 
in  a  long  cable  to  his  paper  at  the  end  of  August, 
in  which  he  asserted  that  the  attack  would  com- 
mence ''before  the  leaves  are  red,"  that  being  the 
only  wording  of  the  facts  permitted  by  the  censor, 
but  which  exactly  timed  the  date  of  the  action.  A 
few  of  the  folloT\^ng  chapters  have  been  rewritten 
from  the  author's  article  published  in  the  New 


FOREWORD 

York  Times,  to  which  acknowledgment  is  made  for 
permission  to  use  such  material.  The  author 
however  wishes  alone  to  stand  sponsor  for  the 
sentiments  and  opinions  expressed  throughout  the 
volume. 


PAET  ONE 
THE  HECTIC  WEEK 


PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   DAY 

A  MEMBER  of  the  Garde  Republicaine,  whose 
duty  was  to  keep  order  in  the  court,  was  creating 
great  disorder  by  climbing  over  the  shoulders  of 
the  mob  in  the  press  section.  He  ousted  friends 
of  the  white-faced  prisoner  in  the  dock,  to  make 
room  for  a  fat  reporter  from  Petit  Parisien,  who 
ordinarily  did  finance  but  was  now  relieving  a 
confrere  at  the  lunch  hour.  The  case  in  court 
was  that  of  the  famous  affaire  Caillaux  and  all 
the  world  was  reading  bulletins  concerning  its 
progress  as  fast  as  special  editions  could  supply 
them. 

I  was  sitting  in  the  last  of  the  over-crowded 
rows  allotted  to  the  press,  but  filled  with  whoever 
got  there  first.  I  was  one  of  the  few  Americans 
permitted  to  cover  this  important  ** story'*  first 
hand,  instead  of  having  to  write  my  nightly 
cables  from  reports  in  the  evening  papers. 


2  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

As  the  Petit  Parisien  man  wheezed  and  jostled 
his  way  to  a  seat  on  the  bench  just  in  front  of  me, 
I  caught  some  words  he  flung  to  a  friend  in  pass- 
ing. Maitre  Labori  was  proclaiming  the  inno- 
cence of  the  lorisoner  with  all  the  fervor  for  which 
he  is  celebrated,  and  I  was  wondering  how  soon 
an  adjournment  would  let  us  escape  from  the 
stifling  heat  of  the  room.  It  was  the  latter  part 
of  July,  1914 ;  and  true  to  French  custom  all  of  the 
windows  were  shut  tight. 

The  words  of  the  fat  reporter  pricked  my  flag- 
ging attention,  *' There  is  a  panic  on  the  Bourse.*' 

The  words  caused  a  buzz  of  comment  all  around 
me.  One  English  journalist,  monocled  and  su- 
perior, even  stopped  his  writing,  and  the  financial 
reporter,  his  fat  body  half  crowded  into  his  seat, 
paused  midway  to  add:  *'The  Austrian  note  to 
Serbia  that  has  got  them  all  scared.'' 

Another  French  newspaperman  some  seats 
away  overheard  the  talk  and  joined  in  loudly.  It 
did  not  matter  how  much  we  talked  during  the 
proceedings  of  the  affaire  Caillaux.  Everybody 
talked.  Often  everybody  talked  at  the  same 
moment.  This  journalist  prefaced  his  remarks 
by  a  derisive  laugh. 

*'They  are  crazy  on  the  Bourse,"  he  said. 
**You  may  be  sure  that  nothing  matters  now  in 


THE  DAY  3 

France  but  this  trial.  No  panic,  or  Austrian  note, 
or  Eussian  note  or  anything,  will  rival  it  as  a 
newspaper  story,  I  am  certain.'' 

The  fat  reporter  again  wheezed  into  speech. 

**I  do  not  know  very  much  concerning  this  af- 
faire Caillaux,''  he  replied,  *^but  I  will  bet  you 
money  that  the  verdict  will  not  get  a  top  head- 
line." 

^^Whyf  cried  some  of  us,  mocking  and  in- 
credulous. 

*^  Because  of  what  IVe  told  you.  There  is  a 
panic  on  the  Bourse." 

The  presiding  judge  announced  the  luncheon 
adjournment;  we  trooped  to  the  basement  restau- 
rant of  the  Palais  de  Justice.  I  found  myself 
sitting  at  a  table  with  the  superior  Englishman. 
We  discussed  the  qualities  of  French  cuisine  for 
a  moment ;  then  he  said : 

**It  will  be  jolly  annoying  if  this  Bourse  busi- 
ness develops  into  war,  you  know." 

This  was  the  first  mention  that  I  remember  of 
the  word  '^war"  in  connection  with  the  events 
that  followed  so  fast  for  the  next  few  weeks,  that 
now  as  I  look  back  upon  them,  they  do  not  seem 
real  at  all.  One  week  to  the  day  following  this 
luncheon,  I  remember  saying  to  a  fellow  news- 
paper correspondent,  **Is  it  a  week,  or  is  it  a  year, 


4  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

since  we  had  Peace  in  the  world?"  But  at  the 
first  mention  of  the  word — the  first  premonition 
of  the  nearness  of  the  tragedy  that  was  descend- 
ing upon  Europe — I  remember  signaling  some- 
what abstractedly  to  a  waiter,  and  giving  him  an 
order  for  food. 

Every  one  of  the  Americans  who  covered  that 
session  of  the  Caillaux  trial  had  lived  in  Europe 
for  years;  and  the  majority  were  to  remain  as 
onlookers  of  the  great  war  that  had  been  so  long 
predicted.  But  on  this  day  none  of  us  realized, 
and  none  of  us  knew;  and  that  was  the  greater 
part  of  all  our  troubles. 

I  remember  a  conversation  only  a  few  weeks 
before  all  this  happened,  with  Mr.  Charles  K. 
Miller,  the  editor  of  the  New  York  Times ,  who 
was  passing  through  Paris  on  his  return  to  New 
York  from  Carlsbad.  He  asked  me  when  I  in- 
tended going  home,  and  I  replied  to  him  as  I  had 
to  many  others : 

**Not  until  they  pull  off  this  war  over  here.  I 
have  been  in  the  newspaper  game  ever  since  I  left 
college,  but  I  have  never  been  lucky  enough  to 
cover  a  war.  So  I  do  not  propose  to  miss  this 
one. ' ' 

Then  came  the  invariable  question: 

**When  do  you  think  it  will  come?" 


THE  DAY  5 

I  had  my  reply  ready.  All  of  us  had  made 
it  many  times. 

*^0h,  perhaps  in  a  few  years.  Perhaps  it  will 
not  be  so  very  long.'' 

The  next  remark  of  at  least  half  the  persons 
with  whom  I  discussed  the  question  was,  ^'Pooh, 
pooh,  there'll  never  be  a  European  war."  Mr. 
Miller  only  said,  *^What  will  you  do  when  it 
comes?" 

Again  the  reply  was  pat  to  hand,  but  how 
vague  it  seems  now,  in  the  light  of  then  fast 
approaching  events!    It  was: 

^^  There  will  be  warning  enough  to  make  our 
plans  for  beating  the  censor,  I  am  certain." 

It  is  easy  enough  to  look  back  now  and  declare 
that  incidents  such  as  Agadir,  the  Balkan  war 
and  Sarejebo  should  have  been  sufficient  hand- 
writing on  the  wall.  All  those  affairs  were  ex- 
actly that,  but  we  simply  could  not  grasp  the  idea, 
that  actual  Armageddon  could  come  without  at 
least  months  of  announcement — time  enough  for 
all  of  us  to  make  our  plans.  In  this  I  do  not 
think  we  should  be  blamed,  for  we  followed  so 
exactly  the  fatuous  beliefs  of  even  foreign  minis- 
tries. That  the  great  moment  should  come  in  a 
week  never  entered  our  imaginations. 

We  filed  back  to  the  court  room  on  that  after- 


6  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

noon  of  the  Caillaux  trial  and  fought  for  the  last 
time  the  twice  daily  battle  for  our  seats.  I  sat 
beside  the  superior  Englishman.  We  listened 
idly  to  famous  politicians  and  famous  doctors  and 
famous  lawyers  garbling  as  best  they  could  the 
dead  question  of  the  murder  of  Gaston  Calmette, 
and  the  more  burning  though  irrelevant  one  as  to 
whether  Joseph  Caillaux  was  a  traitor. 

My  companion  and  I  discovered  that  our  ar- 
rangements for  a  summer  vacation  included  the 
same  tiny  Brittany  hamlet  by  the  sea.  We  passed 
a  portion  of  the  afternoon  making  mutual  plans 
for  the  coming  month,  and  at  the  adjournment 
drove  away  from  the  ancient  building  on  the  banks 
of  the  Seine  in  the  same  fiacre,  both  tr^^ing  to 
align  the  chief  features  of  the  day's  sitting,  and 
planning  the  writing  of  our  night's  despatches. 

After  an  hour  at  my  desk  that  evening,  I  re- 
member turning  to  Mr.  Walter  Duranty,  my  chief 
assistant,  and  saying,  ^^It  is  about  two  thousand 
words  to-night.  With  all  the  direct  testimony 
that  the  Associated  Press  is  sending,  it  ought  to 
lead  the  paper  to-morrow  morning.  Mark  it 
^rush.'  " 

**But  about  this  panic  on  the  Bourse  story! 
Don't  you  think  we  should  send  a  special  on 
that?"  Mr.  Duranty  asked. 


THE  DAY  7 

**Wliy!''  I  questioned. 

**  Because  there  is  an  Austrian  brokerage  firm 
that  has  been  selling  like  mad — started  all  the 
trouble;  it  is  the  identical  firm  that  two  years 
ago — '^  His  voice  broke  off  suddenly.  ^ 'Lis- 
ten!'^ he  then  shouted.  We  made  a  rush  to  the 
front  windows  looking  upon  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiens  near  the  Opera. 

The  street  was  seething,  which  signified  exactly 
nothing,  for  the  Caillaux  case  had  kept  the  boule- 
vards stirred  up  for  days. 

*^They  are  yelling,  ^Down  with  Caillaux!'  ''  I 
said,  as  we  tore  open  the  window  sashes. 

**No — it's  something  else." 

We  leaned  far  out.  Under  the  lights  moved 
thousands  of  heads.  Hundreds  were  reading  the 
latest  editions,  but  in  the  middle  of  the  road  a  mob 
was  surging,  and  we  heard  a  monotonous  cry.  It 
was  a  cry  heard  that  night  in  Paris  for  the  first 
time  in  forty-four  years. 

The  mob  was  shouting,  ^*To  Berlin!'' 

I  slammed  shut  the  window.  ^*Cut  that 
Caillaux  cable  to  a  thousand  words,"  I  yelled,  as 
I  seized  my  hat,  ran  down  the  stairs,  and  plunged 
into  the  crowd,  snatching  the  latest  editions  as  I 
ran. 

The  Austro-Serb  and  Russian  news  had  become 


8  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

worse  within  a  few  hours,  and  there  were  already 
rumors  of  Franco-German  frontier  incidents.  I 
hurried  along  the  boulevards,  calling  at  the  offices 
of  the  Matin  and  the  London  Daily  Mail,  hut  could 
get  no  inside  information;  nothing  but  official  an- 
nouncements which  would  be  cabled  by  the  news 
agencies,  and  did  not  interest  me,  the  correspon- 
dent of  a  paper  receiving  all  agency  matter. 

Later  I  returned  to  my  office,  cabled  a  story  that 
pictured  the  scene  in  the  boulevards  and  gave 
some  details  concerning  the  Austrian  brokerage 
firm  that  had  precipitated  the  trouble  on  the 
Bourse  by  its  selling  orders.  My  paper  alone 
carried  the  next  morning  the  significant  informa- 
tion that  this  same  Austrian  house,  with  high 
Vienna  connections,  had  made  an  enormous  for- 
tune just  two  years  before,  when  it  had  accurate 
and  precise  information  concerning  the  hour  that 
the  conflict  in  the  Balkans  would  begin. 

This  story  was  a  *^beat'' — probably  it  was  the 
first  **beat"  of  the  European  war,  but  it  was  al- 
most lost  in  the  mass  of  heavy  despatches  that  on 
that  night  began  crowding  the  cables  from  every 
capital  in  Europe.  The  next  morning  probably 
every  newspaper  in  the  world  led  its  columns  with 
the  subject  of  war.  Even  in  Paris  the  affaire 
Caillaux  was  relegated  to  the  second  page. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    NIGHT 

A  *'beat''  or  a  ^* scoop/'  otherwise  known  as 
exclusive  news,  is  a  great  matter  to  a  newspaper 
man.  To  *^put  over  a  beat'*  gives  soul  satisfac- 
tion, but  to  be  beaten  causes  poignant  feeling  of 
another  sort. 

There  have  been  some  great  beats  and  a  multi- 
tude of  little  ones,  but  up  to  the  beginning  of  the 
European  war,  the  greatest  beat  that  was  ever 
put  over  came  from  a  Paris  correspondent. 

This  was  the  occasion  when  Henri  de  Blowitz, 
the  famous  representative  of  the  London  Times, 
gave  the  full  text  of  the  treaty  of  Berlin  before 
the  hour  when  it  was  actually  signed.  That  was 
a  real  beat,  not  to  be  classified  with  the  majority 
of  beats  of  later  years,  which  were  often  scandal- 
ous, more  often  paltry,  and  which  often  caused 
us  to  wonder  whether  they  were  worth  the  cable 
tolls. 

In  ante-bellum  discussions,  the  Paris  correspon- 
dents often  opined  that  the  coming  conflict  would 

9 


10  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

open  a  more  important  field.  At  least  we  would 
no  longer  chronicle  the  silly  ways  of  fashion  and 
the  crazy  ways  of  society.  The  turf,  the  manne- 
quin, the  Kue  de  la  Paix,  and  those  who  drank  tea 
at  the  Pre  Catalan  would  give  way  to  real  and 
stirring  matters.  We  all  schemed  to  put  over 
a  real  beat  as  soon  as  the  war  drums  began  to 
roll  and  the  new  Paris  was  revealed.  The  old 
Paris,  in  the  minds  of  American  editors,  had  only 
been  an  important  place  for  unimportant  things. 

Looking  back  now  at  the  beginnings  of  Arma- 
geddon, and  at  the  particular  comer  in  which  I 
performed  a  minor  role,  I  can  say  generally  that 
all  our  schemes  went  wrong  and  that  there  were 
no  ** beats''  of  the  slightest  importance  secured 
by  anybody.  Eemember,  I  am  only  speaking  of 
Paris  and  France.  There  were  a  few  great  beats 
elsewhere.  There  was  the  famous  *^  scrap  of 
paper''  interview  given  to  the  Associated  Press. 
There  were  some  exclusive  interviews  secured  in 
both  Germany  and  England.  But  France,  the 
real  theater  of  action,  where  beats  were  expected, 
was  quite  the  equal  of  Japan  in  her  sudden  tight 
sealing  of  every  crevice  from  which  news  either 
big  or  little  might  leak. 

France  had  learned  several  lessons  from  the 
year  1870,  but  this  one  she  learned  almost  too  well. 


THE  NIGHT  ii 

So  far  as  the  neutral  opinion  of  the  world  was 
concerned,  it  was  scarcely  known  that  France  had 
an  army.  Later,  but  much  later,  and  then  very 
gradually,  some  real  stories  were  passed  by  the 
censor — ^but  even  then  very  few  of  them  were 
beats. 

But  during  the  hectic  week  when  France  went 
to  war  the  censorship  was  almost  overlooked  and 
there  were  a  few  precious  hours  during  which  the 
correspondents  and  their  methods  of  communica- 
tion were  free.  The  first  sign  of  the  censor  was 
the  shutting  off  of  the  telephone  between  Paris 
and  London.  It  had  been  my  custom  to  talk  with 
our  London  office  nightly  in  order  that  the  news 
of  the  two  capitals  might  be  checked,  and  that 
we  might  not  duplicate  stories. 

The  second  night  following  the  events  of  the 
foregoing  chapter  I  talked  to  our  London  bureau 
for  the  last  time.  All  that  day  my  mind  had 
been  busy  with  one  idea :  '  ^  If  war  is  declared,  how 
can  we  beat  the  censor  T' 

The  first  answer  that  probably  occurred  to 
every  correspondent  was:  *^Code."  Alas,  events 
moved  too  quickly.  A  secret  code  was  a  matter 
that  might  have  been  arranged  had  we  been  given 
our  expected  months  of  notice,  but  there  was  no 
time  now. 


12  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

I  gave  the  call  for  our  London  office,  however, 
with  this  idea  still  uppermost  in  mind.  I  waited 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  be  put  through.  Then  I 
heard  the  voice  of  my  colleague.  It  sounded 
harassed.  I  shall  never  forget  his  first  remark 
after  the  communication  was  established.  I 
could  almost  see  him  pass  a  hand  over  a  fevered 
brow ;  I  could  almost  hear  the  sigh  that  I  am  sure 
accompanied  the  words  which  were: 

''My  gracious,  I  never  expected  to  live  to  see 
such  days  as  these!" 

It  was  quite  natural  that  he  should  have  said 
just  that,  but  somehow  there  did  not  seem  any 
fitting  reply.  Also  it  seemed  rather  hopeless  to 
talk  about  codes.     So  I  said: 

''I  am  told  that  we  will  not  be  allowed  to  tele- 
phone after  to-night.'' 

He  replied:  *' That's  a  fact.  I  guess  this  is 
good-by  for  a  while."  He  paused — then  as  an 
afterthought,  added:  *'I  think  you  would  better 
just  send  everything  you  can  from  Paris  without 
pacing  any  heed  to  whether  London  does  or  not." 

Inasmuch  as  a  moment  had  arrived  when  there 
was  only  one  possible  way  to  do  many  things,  I 
quite  agreed  with  him. 

The  conversation  lagged. 

**Well,  good-by,"  I  shouted. 


THE  NIGHT  13 

**Good-by,''  he  replied,  ^'and  good  luck.*' 

That  was  the  end  of  the  telephone  as  an  adjunct 
to  transatlantic  journalism.  I  have  never  spoken 
with  our  London  office  from  that  night. 

After  hanging  up  the  receiver  I  had  an  idea. 

It  did  not  and  does  not  now  seem  a  particularly 
brilliant  one ;  but,  again,  it  was  the  only  possible 
thing  to  do.    I  turned  to  Mr.  Duranty  and  said : 

**We  will  have  a  little  race  with  the  censor. 
We  will  crowd  everything  possible  on  the  cable 
before  he  gets  on  the  job.'' 

All  the  late  editions  were  on  my  desk.  I 
clipped  and  pasted  everything  of  interest  on  cable 
forms  and  sent  them  to  the  Bourse.  Mr.  Duranty 
took  them  himself,  **just  to  see  if  there  were  any 
signs  of  the  censor,"  as  he  expressed  it.  Then  I 
began  to  write,  interrupted  continually  by  my 
dozen  extra  assistants.  I  had  hired  every  free- 
lance newspaper  man  I  could  find — and  I  had  also 
a  number  of  volunteers,  young  American  visitors, 
too  interested  in  events  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  get  out 
of  the  city. 

The  night  was  warm  and  the  windows  all  open. 
The  boulevards  were  dense  with  shouting  people. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  cries  on  this  night. 
*^A  Berlin — A  Berlin,"  echoed  above  the  roar  of 
the  traffic  and  the  mob.    Cuirassiers  frequently 


14  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

rode  through  the  streets  but  the  crowd  immedi- 
ately surged  in  behind  them. 

At  ten  o^clock  the  concierge  mounted  to  protest 
against  the  street  door  being  open.  She  was 
afraid.  She  was  alone  in  the  loge.  I  told  her 
that  the  business  of  the  office  required  the  doors 
kept  unlocked.  She  went  away  and  in  a  few 
moments  came  back  with  the  proprietor  of  the 
building,  whom  she  had  called  by  telephone.  He 
insisted  on  closing  the  street  door.  I  told  him 
this  was  a  violation  of  my  lease.  In  view  of  the 
circumstances  he  persisted  in  his  demand.  I 
wheeled  my  chair  about  and  said  to  him: 

**This  office  remains  open — all  night  if  I  desire. 
It  is  a  newspaper  office  and  we  cannot  close.  If 
you  interfere  with  me  I  guarantee  that  I  will  keep 
a  man  there,  but  if  necessary  that  man  will  be  a 
soldier.'' 

^*What  do  you  mean?''  he  asked. 

^^I  mean  that  I  will  apply  to  the  American  Em- 
bassy for  the  protection  of  my  rights  as  an 
American  citizen." 

He  went  away  and  that  difficulty  ended. 

I  turned  back  to  my  work.  I  wrote  thousands 
of  words  that  night ;  when  not  writing  I  was  dic- 
tating, and  piecing  together  the  reports  of  my  as- 
sistants. 


THE  NIGHT  15 

Mr.  Duranty  returned  from  the  Bourse.  His 
clothes  were  awry  and  he  was  trembling  with  ex- 
citement. He  had  diverged,  in  his  return  trip,  to 
the  Gare  du  Nord,  to  get  a  story  of  the  stormy 
scenes  there — thousands,  chiefly  Americans,  fight- 
ing for  places  in  the  trains  for  England.  He  had 
been  arrested,  he  explained.  Oh,  yes,  he  had  been 
surrounded  by  a  mob  at  the  Grare,  who  spotted 
him  as  a  foreigner,  and  the  police  had  rescued 
him.    He  explained  his  identity  and  was  released. 

At  the  end  of  the  story  he  suddenly  leaped 
across  the  room  to  the  window.  I  leaped  at  the 
same  moment  and  so  did  the  stenographer. 
Across  the  boulevard  was  a  store  that  dealt  in 
objects  of  art.  The  proprietor  was  a  German. 
During  the  day  he  had  boarded  the  place  with 
stout  planks.  As  we  reached  the  window  the 
sound  of  splitting  and  tearing  planks  sounded 
above  even  the  cries  and  roars  of  the  angry  peo- 
ple. One  look  and  Duranty  was  out  of  the  office 
and  in  the  street. 

I  sat  in  the  window  and  watched  the  mob  do  its 
work.  The  torn  planks  were  used  as  battering 
rams  through  the  plate  glass,  through  the  expen- 
sive statuary  and  costly  vases.  In  five  minutes 
the  place  was  a  ruin.  Then  the  cuirassiers  came 
and  drove  the  crowd  away.     Duranty  returned 


i6  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

with  the  details  of  the  story.  I  asked  him  what 
the  police  had  said  to  the  crowd. 

*^A  man  came  out  holding  a  marble  Adonis  by 
the  arm/'  he  replied.  ^'A  cop  said  to  him,  ^Be 
good  now — be  good!'  and  the  chap  replied,  *Well, 
if  I  can't  smash  it,  you  smash  it!' — So  the  cop 
took  it  and  leaped  upon  it  with  both  feet." 

'* Write  it,"  I  said;  '*also  the  Gare  du  Nord 
story. ' ' 

It  was  midnight  and  the  uproar  was  greater 
than  ever.  Processions  blocks  long  wended 
through  the  middle  of  the  streets  singing  the 
*' Marseillaise,"  the  ** Carmagnole "  and  other 
fire-eating  songs  of  the  Revolution.  Through  it 
all  I  worked,  and  steadily  sent  messenger  after 
messenger  to  the  Bourse  with  the  latest  news 
from  the  various  scenes  of  action.  No  signs  yet 
of  the  censor. 

About  one  o'clock  the  crowd  concentrated  just 
below  my  window.  The  cries  grew  fiercer  and 
louder,  with  a  more  terrible  note.  I  went  to  the 
window.  The  faces  of  the  mob  were  turned  to  an 
upper  window  of  the  building  next  door.  Some 
rash  voice  had  shouted  from  that  window  a  cry 
that  no  man  might  shout  that  night  in  Paris  with 
safety.     He  had  cried:  *' Hurrah  for  Germany!" 

I  crawled  out  on  my  window  ledge  and  watched. 


THE  NIGHT  17 

The  crowd  filled  the  street  completely.  They 
watched  that  upper  window,  they  yelled  their  rage 
and  they  battered  against  a  great  grilled  iron  door 
that  baffled  their  efforts.  The  police  tried  to  dis- 
perse them,  but  as  soon  as  the  street  was  partly 
cleared  they  surged  back  again.  They  hung  about 
that  door,  their  faces  turned  up,  the  hate  showing 
in  their  eyes,  their  mouths  open,  bellowing  forth 
their  rage.  They  waited  as  patiently  as  wolves 
that  have  surrounded  a  quarry  that  must  come 
out  to  meet  them  soon.  But  the  waiting  was  so 
long  that  I  crawled  back  from  my  window  ledge 
into  the  office. 

I  finished  a  despatch  that  I  had  compiled  from 
various  documents  given  out  to  the  morning 
papers  by  the  Foreign  Ministry,  and  of  which  I 
had  secured  a  copy.  They  were  an  undisputable 
proof  that  Germany  meant  war  on  France,  for 
they  noted  a  dozen  incidents  proving  that  Ger- 
man mobilization  had  been  under  way  for  days. 
The  dawn  was  breaking  as  I  pushed  my  chair  from 
the  desk. 

I  told  the  stenographer  and  other  assistants  to 
go  home  and  get  some  sleep — not  to  report  again 
until  late  afternoon.  Duranty,  who,  like  myself, 
kept  no  hours  but  worked  always  while  there  was 
work  to  do,  sauntered  into  the  private  room.    He 


i8  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

had  counted  tlie  words  of  copy  that  had  been  filed 
that  night — nearly  twenty  thousand. 

The  yelling  of  the  mob  below  had  given  way  to 
low  rumbling.  We  had  ceased  to  think  about  it. 
We  lighted  our  pipes  and  yawned. 

*  *  Shall  we  cut  it  out  for  a  few  hours  1 ' '  Duranty 
asked. 

'* Think  so,"  I  replied.  ^^We  will  hunt  a  cab 
and  go  home  until  noon." 

I  stifled  another  yawn  and  relighted  my  pipe. 

A  scream  came  from  the  sidewalk — my  pipe 
dropped  to  the  floor  and  we  were  out  on  the  win- 
dow ledge. 

A  man  was  struggling  in  the  middle  of  the 
street.  He  was  the  man  who  had  so  rashly 
shouted  **Vive  PAllemagne"  from  the  window. 

He  fell  and  passed  out  of  sight  under  a  mass  of 
bodies.  The  crowd  opened  once.  The  man 
struggled  to  his  knees.  His  face  was  covered 
with  blood.  Again  we  lost  sight  of  him.  Then 
cuirassiers  charged  down  the  street.  One  of  them 
lifted  a  broken  body  across  his  saddle.  That 
story  never  reached  New  York.  The  censor  was 
on  the  job. 


CHAPTEE  ni 

HERRICK 

On  the  morning  of  September  3,  1914,  an  *' of- 
ficial statement/'  so  called,  was  inserted  by  the 
American  Ambassador,  Myron  T.  Herrick,  in  the 
Paris  edition  of  the  New  York  Herald.  This  an- 
nouncement read: 

^^The  American  Ambassador  advises,  as  he  has 
done  before,  that  all  Americans  who  can  go,  leave 
Paris,  for  obvious  reasons.'' 

The  French  Grovernment  was  then  most  anx- 
ious to  get  every  foreigner  possible  out  of  Paris. 
A  siege  was  imminent  and  the  food  question 
might  become  very  grave.  Preparations  were 
made  for  taking  out  the  British  residents.  Mr. 
Herrick  arranged  with  General  Gallieni,  then  the 
Military  Governor,  for  trains  to  transport  a  thou- 
sand of  them  a  day,  the  British  Government  fur- 
nishing the  money. 

I  now  have  Mr.  Herrick 's  permission  to  state 
for  the  first  time,  that  the  American  Embassy  was 
then  in  receipt  of  a  telegram  from  Mr.  Gerard, 

19 


ao  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

our  Ambassador  in  Berlin,  in  which  he  said  in 
substance  that  the  German  General  Staff  *^  ad- 
vises you  and  all  Americans  to  leave  Paris  at 
once  by  Kouen  and  Havre." 

For  a  considerable  length  of  time  there  was 
practically  no  doubt  that  there  would  be  a  siege, 
and  very  many  believed  it  would  be  followed  by 
a  German  entry  into  Paris.  What  happened  at 
Louvain  seemed  reasonably  likely  to  be  repeated 
at  the  Louvre;  in  fact,  it  was  well  known  to  the 
Government  that  the  German  plan  was  to  blow  up 
Paris  section  by  section  until  the  French  were 
forced  to  capitulate. 

When  the  ministry  changed  and  Delcasse  and 
Millerand  came  into  power,  there  was  a  change 
also  in  policy,  and  it  was  determined  that  the  city 
should  be  defended. 

On  the  morning  of  September  second,  the 
President  of  the  Kepublic  summoned  Mr.  Her- 
rick  to  the  Elysee,  to  thank  him  for  remaining  in 
Paris.  He  added  that  ^^We  propose  to  defend 
the  city  at  the  outer  gates,  at  the  inner  gates,  and 
by  the  valor  of  our  troops,  and  there  will  be  no 
surrender. ' ' 

Under  these  circumstances  the  advice  to  Ameri- 
cans was  inserted  in  the  Herald.  I  called  on  Mr. 
Herrick  immediately  after  the  notice  was  written. 


HERRICK  21 

He  said  to  me:  **Wliat  explanation  can  be  made 
if  no  such  warning  is  given,  and  if  there  is  a 
siege,  with  many  killed  and  wounded,  in  face  of 
the  situation  as  it  is  to-day,  and  of  the  warning 
telegram  I  have  received  from  Berlin  T' 

The  question  has  since  been  asked,  sometimes 
critically,  as  to  why  this  warning  was  given,  since 
after  all  the  Germans  did  not  enter  Paris.  I 
have  therefore  given  these  heretofore  unpub- 
lished facts  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  in 
order  that  it  shall  be  known  just  how  faithfully 
our  ex-ambassador  guarded  his  trust  to  the 
American  people,  to  give  an  insight  into  the 
character  of  the  m.an  who  was  easily  the  most 
remarkable  figure  in  Paris  at  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  who  was  not  only  the  rock  upon  which 
the  thousands  of  Americans  leaned  so  heavily, 
but  was  also  an  outstanding  favorite  of  the  Paris 
public. 

On  one  of  the  nights  just  preceding  mobiliza- 
tion, when  the  boulevards  were  at  the  zenith  of 
their  frenzy,  I  looked  out  my  office  window  and 
saw  an  open  carriage,  with  footmen  wearing  am- 
bassadorial livery  and  cockades,  driving  slowly 
along  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines.  Voices 
snarled  in  the  crowd.  Certain  ambassadors  were 
not  popular  in  Paris  in  those  days;  so  just  who 


22  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

might  this  ambassador  be,  at  that  moment  strain- 
ing his  eyes  to  read  a  paper  under  the  electric 
arc  lights? 

He  looked  up  as  he  heard  the  hoots  directed  at 
himself — then  smiled  and  shouted  something  at 
the  crowd. 

**Ah,  TAmbassadeur  Americain!''  they  passed 
the  word.  Then  rose  cries  of  '^Vive  I'Amerique! 
— Vive  Herrick!''  Men  jumped  on  the  carriage 
steps  and  Mr.  Herrick  shook  their  hands. 
Banter  was  exchanged  on  all  sides,  and  cheers  fol- 
lowed him  down  the  boulevard.  The  Paris  public 
felt  then  what  they  came  to  know  later,  that  he 
liked  them  almost  as  much  as  ^^his  Americans.'' 
They  knew,  when  the  French  Government  went 
to  Bordeaux,  that  the  American  Embassy  re- 
mained— that  the  eye  of  the  great  neutral  repub- 
lic would  see  what  happened  should  the  Germans 
enter  their  city. 

The  later  significant  comment  made  by  Mr.  Her- 
rick, when  a  German  taube  dropped  bombs  on  a 
spot  he  had  just  passed,  that  *'A  dead  ambassa- 
dor might  be  more  useful  than  a  live  one,"  has 
been  written  in  the  history  of  France.  And  when 
the  war  is  over  I  believe  that  the  names  of  Frank- 
lin, Jefferson  and  Herrick  will  constitute  a  trium- 
virate of  American  ambassadors  to  France,  that 


HERRICK  23 

all  French  school  children  of  the  future  will  be 
taught  to  remember  and  respect. 

I  passed  much  time  at  the  Embassy  during  the 
first  weeks  of  war,  for  it  was  a  real  center  of 
news  for  an  American  newspaper.  And  I  re- 
member quite  distinctly  a  statement  that  I  made 
at  home  during  one  of  the  rare  moments  when  I 
was  able  to  reach  it  and  which  I  repeated  many 
times  afterwards.  It  was  a  simple  *^  Thank  God 
that  Myron  T.  Herrick  is  the  American  Ambassa- 
dor.'' To  the  mild  inquiry  '^whyf  I  could  only 
say:  ^* Because  he  is  such  an  honest-to-God  sort 
of  man. ' ' 

Mr.  Herrick  was  undoubtedly  shrewd  in  his 
friendships  for  newspapermen  and  he  was  clever 
in  his  use  of  them.  But  he  always  knew  that  we 
understood  his  cleverness  and  he  always  saw  to 
it  that  we  got  value  received  in  the  way  of 
**copy"  for  the  praise  that  was  often  bestowed 
upon  him  as  the  result  of  it. 

Mr.  Herrick  often  said  to  us,  in  a  manner  quite 
casual,  things  that  he  had  thought  over  carefully 
before  our  arrival.  He  knew  just  how  those 
cables  would  look  in  the  newspaper  columns,  and 
what  the  effect  would  be  upon  the  reader,  long 
before  he  handed  out  the  subject  matter.  But  if 
I  ever  argued  to  myself  that  I  was  receiving  a 


24  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

rather  intime  portrait  of  a  clever  and  an  astute 
diplomat,  I  could  always  honestly  say,  especially 
during  the  eventful  days  I  am  attempting  to  de- 
scribe, that  he  was  one  man  in  Paris  whose  poise 
was  undisturbed  by  the  rapid  succession  of  giant 
shocks,  and  that  all  the  things  which  he  did  and 
said  were  to  his  everlasting  credit  and  honor. 

The  American  correspondents  were  sometimes 
referred  to  as  *' journalistic  attaches''  of  the  Em- 
bassy. We  went  there  regularly,  and  it  was 
ordered  that  our  cards  be  taken  to  **His  Excel- 
lency'' the  moment  that  we  arrived. 

He  sometimes  revealed  to  us  *  inside  informa- 
tion" which,  had  we  been  able  to  print  it,  would 
have  been,  to  say  the  least,  sensational.  On  one 
occasion  when  he  did  not  extract  the  suspicion  of 
a  promise  that  I  preserve  secrecy,  Mr.  Herrick 
told  me  a  story  which,  if  published  to-day,  would 
cause  one  of  the  biggest  sensations  of  the  war. 
But  it  is  a  story  that  can  be  printed  only  when 
the  war  is  over,  and  perhaps  not  then,  unless  Mr. 
Herrick  himself  then  gives  permission. 

Since  leaving  Paris,  however,  he  has  **  released 
for  publication"  some  things  that  could  not  for 
various  reasons  be  printed  at  that  time.  For  in- 
stance, when  the  French  Government  moved  to 
Bordeaux,  the  American  banks  in  Paris  were  in- 


HERRICK  25 

clined  to  follow  them  and  in  fact  did  send  consid- 
erable amounts  of  money  there.  Mr.  Herrick 
told  them  that  he  wished  them  to  remain;  that 
their  services  were  necessary  to  carry  on  the 
relief  work  for  the  German  and  Austrian  refu- 
gees, and  other  charities  of  which  he  was  in 
charge.  He  told  them  they  might  use  the  Em- 
bassy cellar  for  their  money,  that  there  was  a  row 
of  vaults  across  the  cellar  and  under  the  side- 
walk. At  one  time,  when  the  German  peril  was 
most  extreme  those  vaults  contained  more  than 
three  million  dollars  in  gold,  which  was  guarded 
night  and  day  by  six  marines  from  the  U.  S.  S. 
Tennessee, 

Also,  in  order  to  avoid  panic,  we  could  not  print 
at  that  time,  that  the  Embassy  expected  any  day 
a  rush  of  refugees;  Mrs.  Herrick  had  stocked 
the  Embassy  cellars  with  provisions  for  a  thou- 
sand persons  for  several  weeks.  Mrs.  Herrick, 
too,  proved  herself  an  excellent  executive,  for  not 
only  did  she  take  this  entire  burden  of  preparing 
for  the  Americans,  should  the  Germans  enter 
Paris,  but  at  the  same  time  she  organized  a  hos- 
pital at  the  American  Art  Club  and  vigorously 
assisted  French  as  well  as  American  charities. 

I  feel  now  that  a  sufficient  period  has  passed  for 
the  publication  in  more  detail  of  some   of  the 


26  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

memorable  interviews  that  took  place  in  the  pri- 
vate room  of  the  Embassy.  At  the  time  some  of 
them  were  printed  in  the  form  of  short  cable- 
grams, but  more  often  lost  in  the  rush  of  events. 

I  shall  never  forget  a  talk  that  took  place  just 
two  days  before  the  declaration  of  war. 

Mr.  Herrick  was  sitting  at  his  big,  flat-topped 
desk  smoking  a  cigarette  and  looking  out  of  the 
open  window.  He  waved  his  hand  toward  the 
cigarette  box  as  he  greeted  me  and  pointed  at  a 
chair.  He  continued  looking  out  of  the  window, 
but  I  knew  that  he  saw  nothing.  There  were  no 
preliminaries;  only  one  subject  interested  every 
mind  in  Paris. 

**What  do  you  know?''  I  asked. 

**It's  bad/'  he  replied. 

**Any  fresh  developments?" 

'^None  you  don't  already  know — but  come 
again  to-night  and  I'll  tell  you  anything  I  learn." 

^^What  will  you  do  with  the  Americans — the 
town  is  full  of  them?  What  about  them  if  it 
comes?"  I  next  asked.  We  always  referred  to 
the  war  as  just  ^'it." 

**Take  care  of  'em,"  he  announced  briefly — 
then  a  pause;  and  he  laughed.  *^ Don't  know  yet 
that  they'll  need  it — let's  hope  it  won't  come." 

''But  you  expect  it?" 


HERRICK  27 

He  looked  me  directly  in  the  face  as  he  slowly 
answered : 

**Yes — it's  only  a  question  of  days — or  hours/' 

We  both  drew  long  breaths. 

**And — ''  I  began;  but  he  went  on  talking 
slowly  and  heavily. 

*'It's  what  the  Orient  has  waited  for — waited 
for  all  these  centuries — the  breaking  down  of  Oc- 
cidental civilization — ''  He  drew  himself  up  with 
a  jerk.  *^But  that's  too  much  like  pessimism. 
Have  a  cigarette.  I've  got  to  keep  smiling,  you 
know.     That's  part  of  an  ambassador's  job." 

And  he  did  keep  smiling.  There  were  few  mo- 
ments during  all  those  days  when  there  was  not 
a  smile  upon  his  face  and  an  honest  welcome  in 
his  manner.     But  once  I  saw  him  angry. 

He  was  furiously  angry  at  certain  information 
I  had  brought  to  the  Embassy.  It  was  the  first 
day  after  the  military  order  that  all  foreigners 
residing  in  Paris  should  register  at  their  local 
police  commissariats  within  twenty-four  hours. 
The  city  was  no  longer  a  city  officially.  It  was 
an  intrenched  camp.  Only  military  law  pre- 
vailed. The  penalty  for  not  obeying  orders  was 
severe,  and  for  the  thousands  of  Americans  to 
obey  the  order  in  question  was  manifestly  impos- 
sible.   I  myself  had  no  police  permit — ^not  even 


28  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

a  passport.  I  had  uo  time  to  go  near  a  police 
station.  My  wife  telephoned  that  at  our  commis- 
sariat the  line  of  waiting  foreigners  was  about 
eight  hundred.  She  flatly  declined  to  take  her 
turn — permit  or  no  permit.  I  suggested  that  she 
go  home;  but  later  I  heard  disquieting  rumors, 
that  there  had  been  several  arrests  of  foreigners 
unable  to  show  a  permis  de  sejour.  I  did  not 
blame  the  police,  for  the  city  was  full  of  spies; 
but  I  could  see  no  good  reason  why  the  Americans 
should  suffer  and  I  went  full  speed  to  the  Em- 
bassy to  put  the  facts  before  the  Ambassador. 

His  face  changed  color.  His  hands  gripped  the 
sides  of  his  chair. 

**Say  that  over  again,''  he  said  quietly. 

I  repeated.  Suddenly  both  his  hands  left  the 
arms  of  his  chair,  and  doubled  into  fists,  crushed 
down  upon  his  desk. 

**By  God,''  he  shouted,  half  rising,  his  jaw 
thrust  forward.  **By  God,  they  won't  arrest  any 
of  my  people." 

He  pushed  a  button  on  the  desk,  at  the  same 
time  calling  the  name  of  one  of  the  Embassy  sec- 
retaries. Rapidly  and  explosively  outlining  the 
situation,  the  Ambassador  finished  with  the 
order : 

**Now  you  get  to  the  Foreign  Office  quick;  and 


HERRICK  29 

let  them  know  that  if  one  American  is  arrested 
for  not  having  his  papers,  until  this  rush  at  the 
commissariat  is  over,  it  means  trouble — ^that 
they^U  answer  to  me  for  it.'' 

I  believe  this  incident  more  correctly  illustrates 
the  character  of  the  ex-ambassador  than  anything 
one  could  say  or  write  about  him.  When  he  came 
first  to  France,  with  a  reputation  as  a  successful 
Ohio  politician,  no  one  knew  whether  he  was  a 
real  diplomat  or  not.  I  do  not  believe  Mr.  Her- 
rick  knew  himself ;  but  I  do  not  believe  that  either 
then  or  later  he  ever  thought  much  about  it.  He 
had  sufficient  savoir  faire  to  make  him  greatly 
admired  and  respected  by  the  French  people,  and 
his  record  proves  whether  or  not  he  was  a  good 
diplomat.  But  there  were  moments,  such  as  the 
one  I  have  described,  when  he  did  not  stop  to  con- 
sider whether  or  not  an  ambassador  was  sup- 
posed to  be  a  diplomat. 

I  can  picture  other  ambassadors  I  have  known 
going  over  in  their  minds  the  rules  of  diplomacy 
and  then  delicately,  oh,  how  delicately,  approach- 
ing the  subject.  Herrick  sometimes  rode  rough- 
shod over  all  rules  of  diplomacy.  He  did  it  suc- 
cessfully, too — for  there  were  no  Americans  ar- 
rested in  France  for  not  having  their  permis  de 
sejour. 


30  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

I  have  seen  multi-millionaires  standing  in  line 
at  tlie  Embassy,  waiting  their  turn  to  get  tempo- 
rary passports;  and  I  have  seen  powerful  politi- 
cians and  trust  magnates  waiting  in  the  hall 
outside  that  famous  private  room,  while  Mr.  Her- 
rick  talked  to  a  little  school  teacher  from  Ne- 
braska who  had  arrived  earlier  in  the  morning 
and  secured  a  position  ahead  of  them  in  the  line. 

I  have  seen  him  walk  through  the  salons  of  his 
residence,  which  he  kept  open  night  and  day  to 
hundreds  of  Americans  who  felt  safer  just  to  be 
there,  smiling,  shaking  hands  and  telling  stories, 
although  I  knew  he  had  not  slept  for  twenty-four 
hours.  And  I  have  waked  him  up  at  midnight 
to  tell  him  details  concerning  American  refugees 
and  their  suffering  which  only  he  could  alleviate 
and  which  he  did  alleviate  without  sleeping  again 
until  the  work  was  done. 

I  witnessed  many  things  in  company  with  Mr. 
Herrick  behind  the  scenes  of  the  mighty  drama 
as  it  was  unfolding;  most  of  them  I  am  sure  it 
would  not  be  good  ^^ diplomacy^'  on  my  part  to 
repeat.  But  all  of  them  combined  to  make  more 
fervent  my  thanks  to  the  Almighty  that  in  those 
days  Myron  T.  Herrick  was  the  American  Am- 
bassador to  France. 


CHAPTER  IV 

LES   AMERICAINS 

My  first  and  most  poignant  recollection  of  the 
thousands  of  Americans  canght  in  France  at 
the  outbreak  of  war  is  in  connection  with  a  cable 
containing  some  five  thousand  of  their  names, 
which  was  killed  by  the  censor  on  the  ground  that 
it  was  code.  I  worked  hard  on  that  cable,  too. 
I  compiled  it  in  the  hope  that  it  would  relieve  the 
anxiety  of  friends  and  relatives  at  home.  But 
the  censor,  after  pondering  over  the  Smiths, 
Jones,  Adamses  and  Wilsons  in  the  list,  believed 
that  I  had  evolved  a  scheme  to  outwit  the  au- 
thorities and  that  important  war  news  would  be 
published  if  it  were  allowed  to  pass. 

I  have  lived  long  enough  in  France  to  know 
when  not  to  argue.  In  this  case  I  was  meekly 
and  respectfully  silent.  The  censor  said  it  was 
code — therefore  it  must  be  code.  He  even  re- 
fused to  pass  a  private  message  to  my  editors, 
who  had  asked  for  all  the  names  of  Americans 
that  I  could  get,  in  which  I  said  that  I  had  tried 

31 


32  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

to  meet  their  wishes  but  had  failed.  This,  too, 
tlie  censor  thought  had  a  hidden  meaning. 

The  story  of  the  Americans  alone  would  have 
been  almost  the  biggest  that  a  newspaper  man 
ever  had  to  handle,  bad  it  not  been  for  the  fact 
that  after  all  they  were  only  incidental  to  a  far 
bigger  matter.  Naturally  they  did  not  consider 
that  they  could  be  of  lesser  importance  than  any- 
thing. Also,  the  New  York  editors  thought  them 
almost,  if  not  quite,  as  important  as  the  declara- 
tion of  war.  Unfortunately  nefwspaper  corre- 
spondents, even  Americans,  located  in  the  capital 
of  a  belligerent  power,  had  officially  to  think  with 
the  authorities,  and  let  the  story  of  the  Americans 
take  what  place  it  could  find  in  the  jumble  of 
greater  and  lesser  news.  True,  their  story  was 
covered — after  a  fashion — and  the  world  knew 
what  a  real  sort  of  a  man  the  American  Ambassa- 
dor was  in  the  way  he  protected  his  people.  But 
most  of  the  tragedy  and  nearly  all  of  the  comedy 
— much  of  it  was  comedy — was  lost  in  the  roll  of 
drums. 

In  those  days  Europe  was  for  Europeans.  As 
I  recall  the  Americans  now,  it  seems  to  me  that 
no  nation  finding  herself  in  such  a  position  as 
France,  could  have  treated  so  patiently,  so  un- 
selfishly, so  kindly,  as  she,  the  strangers  within 


LES  AMfiRICAINS  33 

her  gates.  As  for  the  strangers,  alas,  many  of 
them  felt  distinctly  aggrieved  that  war  should 
come  to  spoil  their  summer  holidays  and  bitterly 
resented  their  predicament.  They  ignored  the 
fact  that  France  was  fighting  for  her  life. 

Their  predicament,  after  all,  was  not  so  seri- 
ous. After  all,  no  American  died;  no  American 
was  wounded;  no  American  even  starved.  Their 
troubles  were  really  only  inconveniences;  but 
none  of  them  would  believe  that  Uhlans  would  not 
probably  ride  down  the  Champs  Ely  sees  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  shouting  ''hands  up''  to  the 
population. 

I  visited  one  afternoon  the  office  of  the  White 
Star  Line,  jammed  as  usual  with  white-faced, 
anxious-voiced  Americans  seeking  passage  home. 
The  veteran  Paris  manager  of  the  line  was  behind 
the  counter.  He  was  speaking  to  a  frightened 
woman  in  tones  sufficiently  clear  to  be  heard  by 
everybody. 

''I  speak  from  personal  experience,  madam," 
he  told  the  woman.  ''I  know  that  there  will  be 
plenty  of  room  for  everybody  just  as  soon  as 
mobilization  is  over.  In  two  weeks  the  situation 
will  be  much  easier." 

*'How  do  you  know?"  was  the  question. 
*'What  is  your  experience!" 


34  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

His  answer  should  have  brought  assurance,  had 
assurance  been  at  all  possible. 

^'I  was  here  in  eighteen-seventy,"  he  replied. 

The  prediction  was  nearly  right.  It  took 
longer  than  two  weeks  to  clear  the  ways;  but 
when  the  battle  of  the  Mame  began,  almost  the 
last  batch  of  tourists  were  at  Havre,  awaiting 
their  boat. 

The  American  newspaper  correspondents  who 
remained  were  looked  upon  as  fools.  The  tour- 
ists could  not  understand  our  point  of  view  that 
perhaps,  after  all,  Paris  instead  of  Belgium 
would  produce  the  biggest  story  of  the  war. 

I  was  on  one  amusing  occasion  the  *' horrible 
example''  of  the  man  who  would  not  leave  town, 
in  a  little  sidewalk  drama  whose  stellar  role  was 
played  by  one  of  the  best  known  American  actors. 
On  one  of  the  first  evenings  after  mobilization 
I  decided  to  go  to  our  consulate,  then  in  the 
Avenue  de  TOpera,  in  order  to  learn  the  number 
of  people  applying  for  aid  and  learn  if  possible 
the  approximate  number  of  American  tourists  in 
Paris. 

It  was  late.  When  I  reached  the  consulate  it 
was  closed,  but  a  large  crowd  remained  waiting 
on  the  sidewalk.  I  learned  from  the  concierge 
that  the  staff  had  departed  for  the  niorht.    As  I 


LES  AMERICAINS  35 

turned  to  go  I  met  William  H.  Crane,  the  come- 
dian, entering  the  building.  I  told  him  the  place 
was  shut,  and  we  stood  in  the  doorway  talking. 

The  benevolent  face  and  gray  hair  of  Mr. 
Crane  marked  him  with  the  crowd,  and  they  im- 
mediately decided  that  if  he  was  not  the  Consul 
General  himself,  he  was  at  least  a  person  of  high- 
est importance  in  the  affairs  of  our  Government. 
A  group  of  school  teachers  timidly  approached. 
I  spoke  to  him  quickly  in  French. 

**You  can  act  off  the  stage,  can't  youT' 

He  muttered  something  about  getting  away 
quickly,  but  I  seized  his  coat  lapel,  saying: 
**Look  here,  there  are  many  persons  in  this  line 
and  they  have  picked  you  out  to  be  the  big  chief. 
The  consulate  is  closed  and  if  you  don't  play  your 
part  they  will  stand  here  all  night.  They  are 
desperate." 

Crane  hesitated — then  walked  down  the  line, 
hearing  each  tale  of  woe  and  giving  advice.  He 
remained  an  hour,  until  the  last  question  was 
asked  and  the  last  tourist  satisfied.  But  he  in- 
sisted that  I  remain  with  him.  He  told  them  all 
that  I  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  live  in  Paris,  that 
I  had  a  house  and  family  there,  and  that  I  had 
no  possible  chance  to  get  out.  And  so,  he  argued, 
how  much  better  off  were  they  than  ^^this  mis- 


36  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

erable  person,"  for  they  would  surely  get  away 
in  few  days  or  weeks  at  the  latest.  As  they 
did. 

My  last  recollection  of  les  Americains  with 
which  the  word  poignant  might  be  used,  was  the 
morning  before  the  battle  of  the  Marne.  It  ap- 
peared certain  to  all  of  us  who  remained  that  the 
entry  of  the  Germans  could  be  only  a  question  of 
hours.  I,  however,  was  fairly  happy  that  day, 
for  at  four  o'clock  that  morning  my  family  had 
left  the  city  for  safety.  The  American  Ambassa- 
dor had  told  me  confidentially  something  I  al- 
ready knew — that  Paris  was  no  longer  a  safe 
place  for  women  and  children.  I  had  set  forth 
my  own  belief  for  days,  but  my  wife  had  remained. 
However,  she  was  a  great  believer  in  the  Ameri- 
can Ambassador.  So  when  I  gave  her  the  *' con- 
fidential information" — and  I  set  it  forth  strong 
— she  consented  to  go  to  England. 

I  walked  the  streets  that  morning  feeling  a  load 
off  my  mind.  I  had  been  up  all  night,  getting  my 
little  family  off  and  inasmuch  as  the  day  was  too 
important  for  sleep,  I  took  a  refreshing  bath  and 
then  strolled  along  the  empty  Boulevard  des 
Capucines.  I  had  found  a  shady  nook  on  a  side- 
walk terrasse  when  some  one  touched  me  on  the 
arm.     I  turned  and  looked  into  the  terrified  faces 


LES  AMERICAINS  37 

of  an  American  friend  and  his  wife.  **What  are 
you  doing  hereT'  they  inquired  anxiously. 

**Why,  I  live  here/'  I  replied.  *^ Won't  you 
sit  down  and  have  something?" 

**0h,  no,"  the  man  answered.  **We  are  on  our 
way  to  the  train;  we  were  in  the  country  when 
the  trouble  began.  It  was  awful.  They  arrested 
us  as  spies.  We  only  got  here  this  morning.  We 
have  seats  in  the  last  train  for  Marseilles  and  will 
sail  from  there. ' ' 

^^Yes,"  I  said,  somewhat  uninterestedly  I  fear, 
*^but  you  have  lots  of  time — sit  down." 

My  friend  grasped  my  shoulder.  **Man,  are 
you  crazy?"  he  cried.  *'You  look  as  if  you  were 
going  to  play  tennis.  You  come  along  with  us  to 
America. ' ' 

'^ Can't  do  it,"  I  replied.     ''I've  got  to  stay." 

They  stared  at  me  silently.  The  woman  took 
my  hand. 

*'Good-by,"  she  whispered. 

The  man  took  my  hand  in  both  of  his. 
* '  Good-by, ' '  he  quavered.  * '  I  '11  tell  them  in  New 
York  that  I  saw  you." 

*^Do,"  I  replied. 

I  was  not  at  all  courageous  in  remaining  in 
Paris.  I  did  not  remain  because  I  so  desired.  I 
remained  because,  as  a  newspaper  man  appointed 


38  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

to  cover  the  news  of  Paris,  I  could  not  run  away. 
Then,  also,  the  biggest  news  that  perhaps"  Paris 
would  ever  know  seemed  so  near.  I  bought  a 
number  of  American  flags  that  day  and  hung 
them  outside  my  windows. 

I  felt  more  fortunate  than  my  fellow  Americans 
who  had  gone  away. 


CHAPTEE  V 

WAR 

A  NIGHT  spent  sending  despatches — a  yelling, 
singing  mob  beneath  the  windows  making  it  al- 
most impossible  for  messengers  to  cross  to  the 
cable  office; — a  dawn  passed  in  riding  from  one 
ministry  to  another,  wherever  any  portion  of  the 
war  councils  might  still  be  in  session; — and  a 
forenoon  spent  in  a  Turkish  bath,  brought  me 
near  to  the  fateful  hour  on  Saturday,  August  1st, 
when  France  went  to  war. 

I  went  to  the  bath  establishment  for  sleep;  but 
insistently  I  heard  the  voices  of  the  night  before 
— the  yells,  the  cheers  and  the  '^  Marseillaise. '* 
They  were  just  as  audible  in  that  Moorish  room, 
with  dim  lights  and  a  trickling  marble  fountain. 
There  was  no  such  thing  as  sleep. 

I  went  to  my  office  and  found  a  sum  of  gold 
awaiting  me.  I  was  glad  to  get  that  gold.  I  had 
sent  an  urgent  letter  in  order  to  get  it,  in  which 
I  used  such  phrases  as  ^'difficulty  of  getting 
cash,''  ^^moratoriums,  etc."  My  debtor  wrote 
back,  ^*What  is  a  moratorium?"  but  he  sent  the 

39 


40  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

cash.  It  saved  the  situation  for  me  during  the 
next  month,  while  the  financial  stringency  lasted. 
I  went  over  to  my  bank,  The  Equitable  Trust 
Company,  to  deposit  it.  Mr.  Laurence  Slade,  the 
manager,  was  in  the  hall. 

**Is  it  safe  to  leave  this  with  you,'^  I  asked, 
^^or  must  I  go  clinking  around  town  with  it  hung 
in  a  leather  belt  festooned  about  my  person?'' 

*' Leave  it,''  he  suggested. 

' '  But  the  moratorium ! "  I  inquired. 

^'Wan't  take  advantage  of  it  with  any  of  our 
customers  and  we  will  keep  open  unless  a  shell 
blows  the  place  up." 

I  thrust  it  into  his  hands,  thankful  that  I  had 
always  used  an  American  banking  institution  in 
Paris.  All  French  banks  took  advantage  of  the 
moratorium  the  moment  it  was  declared. 

On  the  boulevards  the  crowds  were  thinner  than 
the  days  before.  I  stood  watching  them  idly. 
Every  one  seemed  to  realize  that  the  declaration 
of  war  was  hanging  just  over  our  heads.  There 
was  less  excitement,  less  feeling  of  all  kind.  I 
said  to  myself,  '^Well,  it's  coming,  the  greatest 
story  in  all  the  world  and  there  isn't  a  line  to  be 
written."  It  was  just  too  big  to  be  written  then 
— and  except  the  official  bulletins  of  marching 
events  I  know  of  nothing  that  was  sent  to  any 


WAR  41 

newspaper  on  that  day  either  remarkable  from 
the  standpoint  of  writing  or  facts. 

After  idling  along  the  boulevard  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, I  decided  to  go  to  my  usual  hunting  ground 
for  news — the  Embassy.  I  hailed  a  taxi,  and  just 
as  I  opened  the  door  on  one  side  to  enter,  a 
bearded  Frenchman  opened  the  door  opposite.  I 
stated  that  the  taxi  was  mine,  and  he  declared 
emphatically  that  it  belonged  to  him.  The  chauf- 
feur evidently  saw  us  both  at  the  same  instant 
and  could  not  make  up  his  mind  as  to  our  re- 
spective rights.  A  crowd  began  to  gather,  as  the 
Frenchman,  recognizing  that  I  was  a  foreigner, 
began  haranguing  the  chauffeur. 

**What  do  you  meanT'  he  cried.  *'Do  you 
propose  to  let  foreigners  have  taxis  in  times  like 
this?     Taxis  are  scarce.'' 

The  crowd  began  to  mutter  **  foreigner. "  In  a 
minute  they  would  have  declared  that  I  was  a 
German.    But  I  had  an  inspiration. 

**I  want  to  go  to  the  American  Embassy,"  I 
told  the  Frenchman.  ^'If  you  are  going  that  di- 
rection why  not  come  with  me?  We  can  share 
the  cab.'' 

I  have  always  maintained  that  a  Frenchman, 
no  matter  how  excited  he  is — and  when  he  is  ex- 
cited he  is  often  almost  impossible — will  always 


42  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

listen  to  reason  if  you  can  get  his  attention.  My 
proposition  was  so  entirely  unusual  that  imme- 
diately he  listened,  then  smiled  and  stepped  into 
the  cab,  motioning  me  to  do  the  same. 

"UAmhassade  Americaine/'  he  bellowed  to 
the  chauffeur,  and  as  we  drove  away  he  was  ac- 
cepting a  cigar  from  my  case. 

He  explained  both  his  excitement  and  his  hurry. 
When  the  mobilization  call  came  it  would  be 
necessary  for  him  to  join  his  regiment  on  the  first 
day.  I  wanted  to  tell  the  chauffeur  to  drive  to 
his  home  first,  but  he  would  not  allow  this,  and 
when  we  arrived  at  the  Embassy  it  was  actually 
with  difficulty  that  I  forced  upon  him  the  payment 
for  the  taxi  up  to  that  point. 

I  was  soon  in  the  famous  private  room  of 
conference  and  confidence.  The  Ambassador,  as 
usual,  was  sitting  with  his  face  to  the  open  win- 
dow, and  smoking  a  cigarette. 

I  placed  my  hat  and  stick  upon  the  desk  and 
seated  myself  in  silence.  We  remained  quiet  for 
quite  a  full  minute.  Finally  Mr.  Her  rick  said, 
with  a  short  laugh : 

**Well,  there  does  not  seem  anything  more  to 
talk  about,  does  there  T' 

**No,''  I  replied,  *^we  seem  to  be  at  that  point. 
There  isn't  anything  even  to  write  about.'' 


WAR  43 

A  door  behind  us  opened  quietly,  and  Mr.  Rob- 
ert Woods  Bliss,  the  first  secretary  of  the  Em- 
bassy, entered.  He  walked  to  the  desk.  Neither 
the  Ambassador  nor  I  turned.  Mr.  Bliss  stood 
silent  for  a  moment,  then  said  quietly: 

**It's  come.'^ 

*'Ah,''  breathed  Mr.  Herrick. 

''Yes,''  replied  Mr.  Bliss,  ''the  Foreign  Office 
has  just  telephoned.  The  news  will  be  on  the 
streets  in  a  minute.'' 

It  was  the  biggest  moment,  perhaps,  the  world 
will  ever  know.  It  was  so  big  that  it  stunned  us 
all. 

I  rose  and  took  my  hat  and  stick. 

"Well,"  I  ejaculated  somewhat  uncertainly. 

"Well,"  said  the  Ambassador  in  much  the 
same  manner. 

Then  we  shook  hands;  and  like  a  person  in  a 
trance  I  walked  out  of  the  room  and  down  to  the 
street. 

The  isolated  Eue  de  Chaillot  was  quite  de- 
serted; I  walked  down  to  the  Place  de  I'Alma  to 
find  a  cab.  There  the  scene  was  different.  Cabs 
by  the  dozen  whirled  along,  but  none  heeded  my 
signals.  A  human  wave  was  rolling  over  the 
city.  Fiacres,  street  cars,  taxis  filled  with  men 
and  baggage  were  sweeping  along.    Almost  every 


44  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

vehicle  was  headed  for  one  or  another  of  the  rail- 
way stations.  Already  the  extra  editions  had 
notified  the  populace  of  the  state  of  affairs  and 
mobilization  was  under  way. 

Finally  an  empty  fiacre  came  along  and  I  sig- 
naled the  driver,  jumping  aboard  at  the  same 
moment.  Just  as  an  hour  earlier  when  I  signaled 
a  cab,  a  Frenchman  stepped  in  at  the  oppo- 
site side.  Only,  this  time,  the  Frenchman  wasted 
no  words  concerning  his  rights  to  the  car- 
riage. 

He  bowed.  **I  go  to  the  Place  de  TOpera,"  he 
said  pleasantly. 

I  bowed.  *'I  go  to  exactly  the  same  spot,''  I 
replied  tactfully. 

We  sat  down  and  he  directed  the  driver.  We 
remained  silent  as  we  drove  down  the  Cours  la 
Eeine  until  we  came  opposite  the  Esplanade  of 
the  Invalides.  The  sun  was  setting  behind  the 
golden  dome  over  the  tomb  of  Napoleon.  Then 
my  companion  spoke : 

**I  will  take  the  subway  at  the  Opera  station 
and  go  to  my  home.  It  will  be  the  last  time.  I 
join  my  regiment  to-morrow.'' 

I  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  asked  curi- 
ously: **How  do  you  feel  about  it!  Tell  me — 
are  you  glad — and  are  you  confident?" 


WAR  45 

He  looked  me  straight  in  the  eye.  "I  am 
glad/'  he  answered.  ^^We  are  all  glad — glad 
that  the  waiting  and  the  disappointments,  the 
humiliations  of  forty-four  years,  are  over.'' 

**And  will  you  win — you  think?" 

**I  do  not  know,  but  we  will  fight  well — that  is 
all  I  can  say,  and  this  time  we  are  not  fighting 
alone. ' ' 

We  arrived  at  the  Opera.  He  jumped  to  the 
sidewalk  and  put  out  his  hand.  **Good-by,"  he 
said,  smiling.  *^May  we  meet  again."  I  wrung 
his  hand  and  watched  him  dive  down  the  stairs 
to  the  subway  station. 

I  remained  at  the  office  as  the  afternoon  slipped 
into  evening  and  evening  into  night,  writing  my 
despatches  on  the  actual  outbreak  of  war.  As  I 
sat  by  the  window,  I  suddenly  realized  that  in- 
stead of  the  dazzling  illumination  of  the  boule- 
vards I  wa*!  gazing  into  the  darkness.  I  investi- 
gated this  phenomenon  and  I  wrote  another  des- 
patch upon  the  new  aspect  of  the  city  of  Paris 
on  the  first  night  of  the  war.  It  was  a  cable  de- 
scribing the  death  of  the  old  ^^Ville  Lumiere" 
and  the  birth  of  the  new  French  spirit.  For  not 
only  were  the  boulevards  dark,  but  the  voices  of 
the  city  were  hushed.  It  began  to  rain — a  gentle, 
warm,  summer  rain;  the  gendarmes  put  on  their 


46  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

rubber  capes  and  hoods  and  melted  into  the 
shadows. 

I  went  out  to  take  my  despatches  to  the  cable 
office.  The  streets  were  quiet  as  death.  A  for- 
lorn fiacre  ambled  dismally  out  of  a  gloomy  side 
street,  the  bell  on  the  horse's  neck  giving  forth 
a  hollow-sounding  tinkle.  I  climbed  in.  The 
driver  turned  immediately  off  the  boulevard  into 
a  back  street,  when  suddenly  the  decrepit  horse 
fell  to  his  haunches  in  the  slippery  road.  At 
once  I  felt,  for  I  could  scarcely  see,  four  silent 
figures  surrounding  us.  The  night  before  I 
would  have  scented  danger;  but  now  I  had  a  dif- 
ferent feeling  entirely.  The  four  shadowy  fig- 
ures remained  silent,  at  attention,  as  the  driver 
hauled  the  kicking  and  plunging  horse  to  his  feet. 

**He  thinks  of  the  war,"  said  the  driver. 

A  quiet  chuckle  came  from  the  quartet,  and 
I  could  now  distinguish  that  they  were  gendarmes. 

**  You  travel  late,''  one  of  them  said,  addressing 
me. 

'^La  presse,''  I  replied  briefly. 

^'Bien!''  was  the  reply.  We  drove  down  the 
dark  street,  I  astonished  at  this  city  that  had 
found  itself;  this  nation  that  had  got  quietly  and 
determinately  to  business,  at  the  very  signal  of 
conflict,  to  the  amazement  of  the  entire  world. 


PAKT  TWO 
THE  GEEATEST  STORY 


^  .  .  ■-.« 


^^sr 


WYTHE  WILLIAMS   OF   THE    •xNEW    i'uKK   TIME.S 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   ACTUALITY 

On  the  sidewalk  terrasse  of  a  little  cafe  a  few 
doors  from  the  American  Embassy  I  was  one  of 
a  quartet  of  newspaper  men  on  one  of  the  final 
afternoons  of  August,  1914. 

War  news,  thanks  to  the  censor,  had  lapsed  in 
volume  and  intensity;  but  the  troubles  of  refugee 
Americans  still  made  our  cables  bulky,  and  we 
continued  to  pass  much  time  at  the  Embassy  or 
in  its  vicinity. 

A  man  wabbled  wearily  down  the  street  on  a 
bicycle.  I  recognized  him  as  a  *^  special  corre- 
spondent''  who  had  called  on  me  ten  days  before, 
asking  advice  as  to  where  he  should  apply  for  cre- 
dentials permitting  him  to  describe  battles.  He 
later  disappeared  into  the  then  vague  territory 
known  as  the  **zone  of  military  activity,''  with- 
out any  papers  authorizing  the  trip. 

He  leaned  his  bicycle  against  a  tree  and  joined 
us.  He  had  little  to  say  as  to  where  he  had  been, 
but  told  us  that  he  had  been  a  prisoner  of  the 
British  army  for  several  days.     He  mentioned  a 

49 


50  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

town  near  the  Belgian  frontier  where,  as  he 
described  the  situation,  "the  entire  army  came 
piling  in  before  he  had  a  chance  to  pile  out.'' 

I  do  not  know  what  made  me  suspect  that  Mr. 
Special  Correspondent  was  then  the  possessor  of 
big  news,  for  he  gave  not  the  slightest  suggestion 
of  the  direction  in  which  the  British  army  was 
traveling.  But  I  suspected  him.  In  a  few  min- 
utes he  left  us  to  call  on  the  Ambassador.  Later, 
when  I  saw  him  ride  away  from  the  Embassy  on 
his  bicycle,  I  sent  in  my  card. 

Mr.  Herrick  was  as  bland  as  usual,  but  there 
was  a  worried  look  on  his  face.  I  wasted  no 
time. 

"Mr.  called  on  you  this  afternoon,"  I 

said,  naming  the  special  correspondent.  "He 
told  you  some  real  news.'' 

"Yes,  that  is  so,"  the  Ambassador  replied. 
"How  did  you  guess  it?" 

I  explained  that  I  only  had  a  suspicion,  and  the 
Ambassador  continued : 

"He  cannot  cable  it,  you  need  not  worry.  He 
will  not  attempt  it.  He  has  gone  now  to  write 
an  account  for  the  mail.  He  told  me  so  that  I 
could  make  some  plans." 

"Some  plans?"  I  interrupted.  "The  news  is 
bad  then." 


THE  ACTUALITY  51 

Mr.  Herrick  eyed  me  keenly  for  a  moment — 
then  he  leaned  over  his  desk  and  spoke  in  a  whis- 
per. He  kept  the  confidences  of  the  *' special  cor- 
respondent,'' but  he  gave  me  information  that  sup- 
plemented it,  which  he  had  from  his  own  sources. 
He  told  me  no  names — no  details — ^but  he  gave  me 
the  news  appearing  in  the  official  communiques 
three  full  days  later; — that  the  British  had  been 
forced  back  at  Mons — the  French  defeated  at 
Charleroi,  and  that  the  entire  Allied  line  was 
retreating.  I  did  not  learn  where  the  line  was. 
But  as  I  left  the  Embassy  I  realized  that  France 
was  invaded ;  I  realized  that  the  greatest  story  in 
the  world  was  at  hand.  The  fear  was  upon  me, 
although  I  failed  to  grasp  it  entirely,  that  this 
was  a  story  which  in  its  entirety  would  never  be 
written  for  a  newspaper. 

Mr.  Special  Correspondent  passed  two  days  in 
the  seclusion  of  his  hotel  writing  a  splendid  chap- 
ter for  which  he  received  high  praise,  but  he  was 
unable  to  get  it  printed  until  several  weeks  after 
the  entire  story  had  gone  into  history.  Other 
correspondents  were  able  to  write  half  and  quar- 
ter chapters  which  in  a  few  instances  received 
publication  while  the  story  was  in  progress. 

I  sat  at  my  desk  that  night  pondering  on  how 
to    cable    some    inkling    of    my    information    to 


52  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

America.  I  confess  that  I  almost  wished  the  cable 
was  cut  and  the  loose  ends  lost  on  the  bottom  of 
the  Atlantic. 

I  studied  the  map  of  Europe  facing  me  on  the 
wall.  Sending  a  courier  to  England  was  as  use- 
less as  cabling  direct,  for  the  English  censor  was 
equally  severe  as  the  French.  A  code  message 
was  under  censorial  ban.  A  courier  aboard  the 
Sud-express  might  have  filed  the  news  from  Spain 
or  Portugal  but  the  mobilization  plans  of  General 
Joffre  had  arranged  that  there  would  be-  no  Sud- 
express  for  some  time. 

There  were  undoubtedly  other  correspondents 
who  knew  as  much  concerning  the  state  of  affairs 
as  I.  Many  British  correspondents,  without  cre- 
dentials, were  dodging  about  the  armies,  getting 
into  captivity  and  out  again.  Several  American 
correspondents  were  in  Belgium  following  the 
Germans  as  best  they  could.  But  none  of  them 
was  at  the  end  of  a  cable.  Had  they  been  they 
would  have  been  quite  as  helpless  as  I.  For  had 
I  been  able  that  night  to  use  the  cable  as  I  desired, 
I  would  have  beaten  the  press  of  the  world  by 
three  full  days  with  the  story  of  the  danger  that 
threatened  Paris. 

The  next  night,  although  I  was  completely 
ignorant  whether  the  news  was  then  known  in 


THE  ACTUALITY  53 

America,  I  tried  to  beat  the  censor  at  his  own 
game.  I  succeeded  to  the  extent  of  having  my 
despatch  passed,  but  unfortunately  it  was  not 
understood  in  the  home  office  of  my  newspaper. 
This  was  my  scheme : 

During  the  day  rumors  of  disaster  began  to 
spread;  but  the  Paris  papers  printed  nothing  of 
the  truth,  and  officially  the  Allied  armies  con- 
tinued to  hold  the  Belgian  frontier.  That  night 
refugees  from  French  cities  began  entering  Paris 
at  the  Gare  du  Nord. 

I  began  an  innocent  despatch  that  seemed  hardly 
worth  the  cable  tolls.  It  ambled  along,  with  cum- 
brous sentences  and  involved  grammar,  describing 
American  war  charities.  Then  without  what  in 
cable  parlance  is  known  as  a  ^'full  stop,"  which 
indicates  a  complete  break  in  the  sense  of  the 
reading  matter,  I  inserted  the  words  ^^  refugees 
crowding  gare  du  nord  tonight  from  points  south 
of  Lille,''  and  continued  the  despatch  with  more 
material  of  the  sort  with  which  it  began. 

I  went  home  hoping  for  the  best  and  wondering 
if  I  had  made  myself  sufficiently  clear  to  arouse 
the  suspicion  of  the  copy  reader  on  the  other  side 
of  the  ocean  who  handled  my  copy.  If  I  had  I 
knew  that  those  eleven  words  would  be  printed  in 
the  largest  display  type  the  following  morning. 


54  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

Two  weeks  later,  when  the  next  batch  of  news- 
papers reached  Paris,  I  read  those  words  with 
interest.  They  were  all  there,  but  carefully  buried 
in  the  story  of  war  charities  exactly  where  I  had 
placed  them. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  FIELD   OF   GLORY 

The  battle  of  the  Marne  was  fought  by  the 
Allies  in  the  direct  interest  of  the  city  of  Paris. 
The  result  was  the  city^s  salvation.  At  the  time, 
only  a  small  percentage  of  the  inhabitants  knew 
anything  about  it.  But  as  all  the  world  knows 
now,  the  battlefield  of  the  Marne  was  the  first 
field  of  glory  for  the  Allied  armies  in  the  great 
European  war.  When  the  war  is  over,  the  sight- 
seeing motors  will  reach  it  in  two  hours,  prob- 
ably starting  from  the  corner  of  the  Avenue  de 
.rOpera  and  the  Rue  de  la  Paix — a  street  that  by 
now  might  have  a  different  name  had  it  not  been 
for  the  thousands  who  died  only  a  few  miles 
away. 

On  one  of  the  first  days  of  September,  1914, 
the  few  journalists  who  remained  in  Paris  gath- 
ered at  the  Cafe  Napolitain  early  in  the  after- 
noon, instead  of  at  the  aperitif  hour.  The  Cafe 
Napolitain,  around  the  corner  from  the  sight- 
seeing motor  stand,  is  the  rendezvous  for  jour- 
nalists, and   always  has  been.    At  the  aperitif 

55 


56  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR      ^ 

hour — just  before  dinner — you  may  see  all  the 
best-known  figures  in  the  French  journalistic 
world,  also  the  correspondents  of  the  London  and 
New  York  press,  seated  on  its  sidewalk  terrasse. 

I  sat  on  the  terrasse  on  that  never  to  be  forgot- 
ten afternoon  of  September.  We  were  mostly 
Englishmen  and  Americans.  The  majority  of  our 
French  confreres  were  serving  in  their  regiments. 
Some  of  them,  with  whom  we  had  argued  only  five 
weeks  before  concerning  the  trial  of  Madame  Cail- 
laux,  were  now  l}ang  on  the  fields  of  Charleroi  and 
Mons.  Some  of  the  Englishmen  had  decided, 
because  of  the  rumored  orders  of  the  Kaiser  con- 
cerning the  fate  of  captured  British  journalists, 
that  Bordeaux  was  a  better  center  for  news  than 
Paris,  and  had  followed  the  Government  to  their 
new  capital,  on  the  anniversary  of  Sedan.  Sev- 
eral of  the  Americans  had  also  left  town,  but  in 
order  to  better  follow  the  movements  of  the  Allied 
armies.  Owing  to  the  vigorous  unemotionalism 
of  General  Joffre,  none  of  them  was  any  nearer 
the  *  Afield  of  operations"  than  we  who  sat  on  the 
Cafe  terrasse, 

I  doubt  if  ever  a  world  capital  presented  such 
a  scene,  or  ever  will  again,  as  Paris  on  that  after- 
noon. The  day  itself  was  perfect — glorious  sum- 
mer,  not  hot — just  pleasantly  warm.     The   sun 


THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY  57 

hung  over  the  city  casting  straight  shadows  of  the 
full  leaves,  down  on  the  tree  lined  sidewalk.  But 
there  was  not  an  automobile,  nor  carriage,  scarcely- 
even  a  person  in  the  boulevards.  The  city  was 
completely  still.  It  had  seen  in  the  three  days 
previous  probably  the  greatest  exodus  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world.  The  ordinary  population  had 
shrunk  over  a  million.  The  last  of  the  American 
tourists  left  that  morning  for  Havre.  The  rail- 
road communications  to  the  north  were  in  the 
hands  of  the  German  army.  There  were  no  tele- 
graph communications.  Even  the  telephone  was 
rigidly  restricted.  The  censor  made  the  sending 
of  cables  almost  an  impossibility.  We  were  in  a 
city  detached--  ^part  from  the  rest  of  the  world. 

That  morning,  at  the  headquarters  of  the  mili- 
tary government,  we  were  advised  to  get  out 
quickly — on  that  same  day  in  fact — or  take  our 
own  chances  by  remaining.  Possibly  all  the 
bridges  and  roads  leading  out  of  the  city  might 
be  blown  up  before  next  morning.  Uhlans  had 
been  seen  in  the  forest  of  Montmorency,  only  ten 
miles  away.  It  seemed  that  Paris,  which  has  sup- 
plied so  much  drama  to  the  world's  history,  was 
about  to  add  another  chapter,  and  the  odds  were 
that  it  would  be  a  final  one. 

So,  as  I  have  said,  I  sat  with  my  fellow  jour- 


58  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

nalists  on  the  terrasse  of  the  Cafe  Napolitain  that 
fateful  afternoon — and  waited.  That  is  why  we 
were  there — to  wait.  Several  times  we  thought 
our  waiting  was  rewarded,  and  we  strained  our 
ears.  For  we  were  waiting  to  hear  the  guns — the 
guns  of  the  German  attack.  Through  that  entire 
afternoon,  not  one  of  us,  singly  or  in  partnership, 
would  have  offered  ten  cents  for  the  city  of  Paris. 
We  felt  in  our  souls  that  it  was  doomed.  It  was 
an  afternoon  to  have  lived — even  though  nothing 
happened. 

Toward  nightfall  we  learned  that  the  German 
forces  had  suddenly  diverted  their  march  to  the 
southeast.  We  sat  on  our  terrasse  and  wondered. 
That  night  every  auto-taxi  in  the  city  was  convey- 
ing a  portion  of  General  Maunoury's  army  out  of 
the  north  gates,  to  fall  on  the  enemy's  right  flank. 
The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  those  of  us 
who  were  astir,  heard  very  faintly — so  faintly  we 
could  scarcely  believe,  but  we  heard  nevertheless, 
the  opening  guns  of  the  battle  of  the  Marne. 

I  know  only  one  journalist  who  actually  saw  the 
battle  of  the  Marne.  I  know  several  who  said  they 
saw  it,  but  I  did  not  believe  them,  and  I  know 
better  than  to  believe  them  now.  Of  course  there 
are  French  journalists  who  took  a  military  part 
in  the  battle,  but  they  have  not  yet  had  opportu- 


THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY  59 

nity  to  chronicle  their  impressions — those  of  them 
who  live.  This  one  journalist  saw  the  battle  as  a 
prisoner  with  his  own  army ;  he  was  lugged  along 
with  them  clear  to  the  Aisne. 

The  week  following  the  German  retreat  to  the 
Aisne,  I  was  permitted  to  visit  the  field  of  glory. 
It  was  only  after  skilful  maneuvres  and  great  dif- 
ficulties that  I  secured  a  military  pass.  And  then 
my  pass  was  canceled  after  I  had  been  out  of 
Paris  only  three  days — and  I  was  sent  back  under 
a  military  escort.  But  I  saw  the  battlefield  before 
the  hand  of  the  restorer  reached  it. 

The  trees  still  lay  where  they  fell,  cut  down  by 
shells.  Broken  cannon  and  aeroplanes  were  in 
the  ditches  and  in  the  fields.  Unused  German 
ammunition  and  food  supplies  were  strewn  about, 
showing  where  the  enemy  had  been  forced  to  a 
hasty  retreat.  Sentries  guarded  every  cross 
roads.  The  dead,  numbering  thousands,  lay 
unburied  and  dotted  the  plain  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see.  It  was  still  the  field  of  glory.  It  was 
still  wet  with  blood. 

We  who  took  that  trip  were  thrilled  by  all  the 
silent  evidence  of  the  mighty  struggle  that  had 
taken  place  there  only  a  few  days — only  a  few 
hours  before.  It  was  easy  for  us  to  picture  the 
mammoth  combat,  the  battle  of  the  millions,  across 


6o  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

that  wonderful,  beautifully  undul?' *iig  plain.  The 
war  was  terrible — true.  But  it  was  glorious. 
The  men  who  died  there  were  heroes.  Our  emo- 
tions were  almost  too  much  for  us.  And  in  the 
very  near  distance  the  artillery  still  thundered 
both  night  and  day. 

On  the  third  of  February,  1915,  five  months 
from  the  time  I  sat  on  the  terrasse  of  the  Cafe 
Napolitain  waiting  to  hear  the  guns,  I  travel 
for  a  second  time  over  the  battlefield  of  the 
Mame. 

This  time  I  do  not  have  a  military  pass.  It  is 
no  longer  necessary.  The  valley  of  the  Marne  is 
no  longer  in  the  zone  of  operations.  I  go  out 
openly  in  an  automobile.  There  are  no  sentries 
to  block  the  way.  The  road  is  perfectly  safe; 
so  safe  that  I  take  my  wife  with  me  to  show  her 
some  of  the  devastations  of  war.  She  is  prob- 
ably the  first  of  the  visitors  to  pass  across  that 
famous  battlefield,  perhaps  soon  to  be  overrun  by 
thousands. 

Our  car  climbs  the  steep  hill  beyond  Meaux, 
which  is  the  extreme  edge  of  the  battlefield,  about 
ten  in  the  morning;  and  during  the  day  circuits 
about  half  the  area  of  the  fighting,  a  distance  of 
about  seventy-five  miles — or  a  hundred  miles. 

The  "Field  of  Five  Thousand  Dead"  is  what 


THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY  6i 

the  majority  of  the  tourists  will  probably  call  the 
battlefield  of  the  Marne,  because  of  the  tragic 
toll  of  life  taken  on  that  one  particular  rolling  bit 
of  meadow. 

We  stop  at  this  field  in  the  morning  soon  after 
leaving  Meaux.  As  we  look  across  it  we  see  none 
of  the  signs  of  conflict  that  I  had  witnessed  in 
September.  There  are  none  of  the  ruined  accou- 
terments  of  war.  No  horses  lie  on  their  backs, 
four  legs  sticking  straight  in  the  air.  There  are 
no  human  forms  in  huddled  and  grotesque  posi- 
tions in  the  ravines  and  on  the  flat.  True,  every 
tree  bears  the  mark  of  bullets,  every  wall  has  been 
shattered  by  shells,  but  these  signs  are  not  over- 
powering evidences  of  massive  conflict.  There  is 
nothing  to  make  vivid  the  fearful  charge  of  the 
Zouaves  against  the  flower  of  Von  Kluck's  army 
only  five  months  before. 

Yes — there  is  something.  As  we  look  more 
closely  we  see  far  away  a  cluster  of  little  rude 
black  wood  crosses.  They  are  not  planted  on 
mounds,  they  just  stick  up  straight  from  the  level 
ground.  There  are  other  little  clusters  through- 
out the  field.  Each  cross  marks  a  grave.  Each 
grave  contains  from  a  dozen  to  fifty  bodies. 
Together  the  crosses  mark  the  total  of  five  thou- 
sand dead. 


62  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

An  old  woman  hobbles  along  the  main  road. 
She  looks  at  us  curiously  and  stops  beside  the 
car.  I  ask  if  we  can  go  close  to  the  little  black 
crosses.  She  replies  that  we  can  but  that  the 
fields  are  very  muddy.  I  ask  if  any  of  the  graves 
are  marked  with  the  names  of  the  fallen  soldiers. 
She  shakes  her  head.  No,  they  are  the  unknown 
dead.  The  regiments  that  fought  across  that  field 
are  known — that  is  all.  There  are  both  French 
and  German  dead.  The  relatives  of  course  know 
that  their  men  were  in  those  regiments  and  they 
may  assume,  if  they  have  not  received  letters  from 
them  recently,  that  they  have  been  buried  there — 
out  on  that  vast,  undulating,  wind  swept  plain 
under  one  of  the  little  black  crosses.  But,  of 
course,  one  can  never  be  sure.  They  might  not 
be  dead  at  all — only  prisoners — or  again,  they 
might  have  died  somewhere  else.  It  is  all  very 
confusing  and  vague — what  happens  to  the  men 
who  no  longer  send  letters  home.  It  is  safe  to 
believe  they  are  just  dead — to  determine  where 
they  died  is  difficult. 

The  old  woman  suggests  that  we  visit  the  little 
village  grave-yard,  at  the  corner  of  the  field.  The 
Zouave  officers  are  buried  there — those  who  were 
recognized  as  officers.  Some  English  had  also 
been  found  and  carried  there.    She  is  the  caretaker 


THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY  63 

of  tlie  little  grave-yard.  She  will  show  it  to  us. 
She  says  that  it  is  much  more  interesting  than  the 
field.     The  field  is  much  too  muddy. 

The  world  is  as  still  as  the  death  all  around  us 
when  we  enter  that  little  country  grave-yard.  It 
has  been  trampled  by  a  multitude.  The  five 
months  that  have  elapsed  and  the  hard  work  of 
the  little  old  woman  have  not  destroyed  the  signs 
of  conflict  there.  But  the  time  has  taken  the  glory. 
The  low  stone  wall  that  surrounds  the  place  has 
been  used  as  a  barricade  by  the  Zouaves.  It  is 
pierced  with  holes  for  their  rifles.  In  many 
places  portions  of  the  wall  are  missing,  showing 
where  the  shells  have  struck. 

In  the  center  of  the  yard,  one  of  them  has 
opened  a  grave.  It  is  a  child's  grave.  I  look 
down  into  the  hole  about  three  feet  below  the 
muddy  surface  of  the  yard.  I  see  a  weather- 
beaten  headstone.  It  bears  the  child's  name.  A 
hundred  years,  according  to  date,  that  stone  has 
silently  borne  witness  of  the  few  years  of  life 
before  death,  and  then  it  has  been  rudely  crushed 
into  the  earth  on  a  glorious  day  in  September. 
The  graves  of  the  soldiers  who  died  there  that 
same  glorious  day  are  all  fresh  mounds.  There 
are  only  twenty  or  thirty  mounds,  but  five  hun- 
dred dead  are  buried  beneath  them.    Above  the 


64  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

mounds  are  freshly  painted  crosses.  On  some  of 
them  are  roughly  printed  the  names  of  the  fallen 
officers.  On  several  are  wreaths  or  artificial  flow- 
ers— beads  in  the  shape  of  violets  and  yellow  por- 
celain immortelles.  In  one  corner  under  a  little 
cross  is  inscribed  the  name  of  an  English  lieuten- 
ant of  dragoons — aged  twenty.  The  old  caretaker 
says  that  his  family  may  take  his  body  to  Eng- 
land when  the  war  is  over — but,  of  course,  he  is 
not  buried  in  a  coffin — just  put  into  the  ground  on 
the  spot  where  he  was  found  clutching  a  frag- 
ment of  his  sword  in  his  hand. 

We  drive  away  to  the  north.  On  both  sides  of 
the  road  little  clusters  of  black  crosses  are  planted 
in  the  fields.  Several  times  we  pass  great  charred 
patches  on  the  earth.  These  are  the  places  where 
the  G-ermans  burned  their  dead  before  retreating. 
There  are  trenches  too — trenches  and  the  dead. 
There  are  old  trenches  and  new — those  made  in 
a  few  hours  while  both  armies  alternately 
advanced  and  retreated,  and  those  which  the 
French  engineers  have  made  since  for  use  if  the 
Germans  again  advance. 

We  are  a  dozen  miles  from  the  river  Aisne 
when  our  chauffeur  stops.  If  we  go  nearer  we 
will  be  in  '^the  zone  of  operations'*  where  passes 
are  rigidly  required — where  if  one  does  not  pos- 


THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY  65 

sess  a  pass  one  is  under  rigid  suspicion.     We  do 
not  take  the  chance  of  advancing  further. 

We  are  in  a  devastated  village.  We  have 
passed  through  many  but  this  one  seems  worse 
than  the  others.  The  church  has  been  demol- 
ished and  two-thirds  of  the  houses  gutted  by  shells 
and  fire.  The  place  is  almost  deserted  by  the 
inhabitants.  When  we  halted  our  car  there  was 
not  the  sound  of  a  living  thing.  Then  a  few  scare- 
crow children  gathered  and  examined  us  curi- 
ously. We  examine  the  remnants  of  the  House 
of  God.  It  has  doubtless  been  used  as  a  fortress. 
Bloody  uniforms  are  scattered  among  the  tumbled 
stones.  Five  bodies  are  rotting  underneath  the 
altar.  Our  minds  have  gone  morbid  by  the  horror. 
The  chauffeur  turns  the  car  about.  An  old  man 
comes  from  the  ruins  of  a  shop.  He  asks  if  we 
want  to  buy  souvenirs.  The  word  ** souvenirs" 
halts  us.  We  wonder  how  many  thousand  will  be 
sold  in  this  village,  and  in  all  the  villages  during 
the  years  following  the  war.  I  recall  that  only 
a  few  years  ago  one  might  buy  ^'authentic  sou- 
venirs of  the  battle  of  Waterloo."  The  old  man 
lugs  forth  a  German  helmet  and  the  cartridge  of 
a  French  shell — one  of  the  famous  ^^seventy- 
fives."  He  asks  if  we  are  Americans.  Then  he 
places  a  value  of  five  dollars  on  the  helmet  and 


66  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

one  dollar  for  tlie  cartridge.  We  think  that  the 
thriftj  inhabitants  of  these  villages  may  yet  tri- 
umph over  the  devastation  of  war  if  they  lay  in 
sufficient  stock  of  souvenirs.  Our  chauffeur 
informs  us  that  we  can  pick  up  all  we  desire  in  the 
fields,  and  we  take  to  the  road  again. 

We  stop  the  car  beside  a  large  open  meadow 
a  few  miles  south.  The  field  contains  the  same 
clusters  of  crosses.  Part  of  it  is  plowed  ground 
and  is  soggy  from  the  rains.  We  stumble  along 
it,  mud  to  our  shoe  tops.  We  stop  beside  the 
crosses.  They  do  not  mark  all  the  graves.  I  sud- 
denly feel  my  feet  sink  in  the  mud.  I  hastily  free 
myself.  My  wife  asks  me  what  is  the  matter,  and 
I  rush  away  further  into  the  field.  I  have  acci- 
dentally stepped  into  a  grave — the  mud  being  so 
soft — and  have  felt  my  boot  touch  something.  As 
I  looked  down  I  saw  a  couple  of  inches  of  smeared, 
muddy,  gray  cloth. 

We  leave  the  plowed  ground  and  come  into  a 
field  of  stubble.  We  stand  silent  a  moment  at  the 
top  of  a  knoll.  The  short  winter  day  is  dying 
rapidly.  The  horizon  for  the  moment  seems  lost 
in  cold  blue  vapors.  It  seems  appropriate  to  the 
place — it  is  like  battle  smoke. 

I  stoop  over  to  pick  up  a  shrapnel  ball  imbedded 
in  the  mud.    My  wife  seizes  me  by  the  arm.     '  ^  Lis- 


THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY  67 

ten,''  she  whispers.  The  gloom  of  dusk  is  creep- 
ing about  us.  *^Did  you  hear?"  she  asks.  Then 
we  hear.  ^^Boom,  boo-o-m,  boom,  boo-o-om."  It 
is  quite  as  faint  as  the  opening  sounds  of  the  bat- 
tle of  the  Marne  to  the  early  risers  in  Paris.  But 
it  is  quite  as  distinct.  We  have  just  heard  the 
guns  which  are  still  disputing  the  possession  of 
the  Aisne. 

The  chauffeur  is  signaling  to  us.  The  wind 
sweeps  over  the  desolate  field  with  a  few  drops  of 
rain.  We  make  a  detour  near  a  haystack.  Close 
to  the  base — almost  under  it,  I  pick  up  torn 
strips  of  gray  uniform.  They  are  covered  with 
blood.  There  is  also  a  battered  brass  belt  buckle, 
and  a  bent  canteen — evidence  of  the  ghastly  and 
lonely  tragedy  enacted  there.  A  few  feet  away 
looms  through  the  dark  the  usual  black  wood  cross 
of  the  field  of  glory. 

The  chauffeur  has  lighted  the  lamps  on  the  car. 
We  hear  the  sound  of  the  engine  as  we  hasten 
through  the  mud.  We  are  surfeited  with  devasta- 
tion, with  horror,  and  with  the  field  of  glory.  We 
tell  him  to  hasten  toward  Meaux  where  we  will 
take  the  next  train  for  Paris.  He  drives  us 
swiftly  into  the  coming  night  over  the  hill  that 
looks  upon  the  ^^ Field  of  Five  Thousand  Dead." 
There  we  stop  a  moment  to  see  the  last  stniggles 


M  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

of  the  descending  sun  tipping  the  forests  on  the 
horizon  with  rosy  flames. 

We  return  by  a  different  road  through  another 
devastated  viHage.  It  is  not  really  a  village — 
just  a  large  farmstead — a  model  farm  it  was  called 
before  the  war.  Now  the  stone  walls  have  crum- 
bled. The  buildings  are  twisted  skeletons  of  iron 
bars — all  that  withstood  the  appetite  of  the  flames. 
Their  outlines  are  vivid  black  against  the  sky. 
They  seem  to  writhe  in  the  wind. 

A  man  and  a  woman  and  little  girl  stand  in  the 
road.  The  car  stops  and  we  get  out.  The  man  is 
the  owner  of  the  ruin.  The  woman  and  child  are 
his  wife  and  daughter.  They  had  fled  when  the 
Germans  approached.  After  the  glorious  victory 
they  returned  to  their  home.  The  woman  asks  us 
to  enter  the  broken  gateway.  At  one  end  of  the 
walled  yard  was  the  house.  A  broken  portion  of 
it  remains.  The  man  had  boarded  up  the  holes 
and  the  cracks  in  the  walls  and  the  empty  window 
frames.  He  explains  that  the  place  had  been 
taken  and  retaken  four  times  before  the  French 
were  finally  victorious.  He  tells  us  of  the  toll 
that  death  had  taken  in  the  yard.  The  woman 
tells  of  bodies  found  in  the  house — so  many  in  the 
parlor — so  many  in  the  bedroom — so  many  lying 
on  the  stairs. 


THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY  69 

We  walked  back  to  the  road  where  the  side 
lamps  of  the  car  cast  flickering  flames  into  the 
night.     The  chauffeur  turns  on  the  electric  head 
lamps  that  throw  a  blinding  light  fifty  feet  away. 
The  little  girl  dances  in  front  of  them  and  across 
the  road  to  a  mound  of  mud.     She  laughs.     Her 
mother  asks  her  why  she  is  happy.     '^Oh,  the 
lights, ' '  she  calls  back.     "  It 's  like  Christmas — and 
folks  are  here. ' '     She  picks  up  a  stone  and  throws 
it  toward  the  mound  of  mud.    I  noticed  that  the 
mound  is  regular  in  form — and  oblong,  about  a 
dozen  by  six  feet  in  size.     Around  it  runs  a  border 
of  flat  stones.     They  are  set  on  the  corners  and 
arranged  in  angular  criss-cross  lines  such  as  a 
child   builds   with  his   toy  wooden   blocks.     We 
watch  the  little  girl  as  she  kicks  one  of  the  stones 
loose.    Her  mother  calls  to  her  and  she  hastily 
puts   it  back  in  position.    A   tall   tree  casts   a 
shadow  across  the  center  of  the  mound.     Through 
the  top  of  the  tree  the  rising  wind  begins  to  sob, 
and  the   rain  drops  blow  into   our  faces.     The 
mother  again  calls  to  the  child,  who  comes  back 
across  the  road  stubbing  her  toes  into  the  mud. 

The  chauffeur  starts  the  engine  and  turns  the 
front  of  the  car  so  that  the  headlights  are  direct 
on  the  mound,  with  its  border  of  stones  arranged 
like  toy  blocks.     The  shadow  of  the  tall  tree  points 


70  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

in  another  direction.  Where  it  had  been — where 
I  could  not  see  before — I  now  see  a  black  wooden 
cross.  *^How  many  under  that?'*  I  asked  the 
man  casually.  ^^ Eighteen  or  twenty-two/'  he  an- 
swers, **I  forget.  We  found  them  here  in  the 
road." 

AVe  jump  into  the  car  and  leave  the  field  of 
glory  in  the  dark. 


PAET  THREE 
THE  ARM  OF  MILITARY  AUTHORITY 


UpPl'ULlQUE     FnANCAISE 

MIMS'1I;kB    de    i.\    GUERKE 


PERMIS 

OE  CORRESPONDANT   DE  PRESSE 

AUX   ARMEES 


JOURNAL 
CORRESPONDANT 


Ce  permis  doit  etre  retourn^  au  Bureau  der  In  Fresie 
du  Mlnislere  des  Affaires  Etrang^res  ^  la  fin  de  chaquc 
lournee. 

TTTE  AI'TTTOR'S   PASS 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    FIELD    OF    BATTLE 

'*To  see  the  damage  done  by  the  Grermans  in 
unfortified  villages." 

This  was  the  quest  that  first  passed  me  into 
the  zone  of  military  operations,  that  first  landed 
me  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  gave  nue  my  first 
experience  under  fire. 

Ambassador  Herrick  had  procured  a  pass  for 
me  and  two  other  Paris  correspondents;  it  cov- 
ered also  an  automobile  and  chauffeur,  and  was 
signed  by  General  Gallieni,  the  Military  Governor 
and  Commander  of  the  Army  of  Paris.  Mr.  Her- 
rick explained  that  he  had  requested  it,  because 
we  had  not  attempted  to  leave  the  city  without 
credentials — as  had  many  correspondents — **by 
the  back  door, "  as  he  said.  He  considered  that  it 
was  time  for  some  of  us  to  go  out  openly  *^by  the 
front  door,'^  in  order  to  later  tell  the  truth  to 
America. 

We  took  the  pass  thankfully.  It  was  good  for 
a  week  and  would  take  us  ' '  anywhere  on  the  field 

73 


74  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

of  battle.''  We  have  always  been  thankful  that 
this  pass  was  handed  to  us  by  Ambassador  Her- 
rick  in  his  private  room  at  the  American  Embassy, 
and  that  it  was  requested  of  General  Gallieni  by 
the  Ambassador  himself — that  it  was  his  idea  and 
not  ours.  For  later  it  developed  that  a  pass  from 
General  Gallieni  was  not  sufificient  to  take  us  ^ '  any- 
where on  the  field  of  battle ' ' — the  pass  itself  dis- 
appeared and  we  came  back  to  Paris  as  prisoners 
of  war.  We  were  told  that  we  were  arrested 
because  we  were  ^'at  the  front  without  creden- 
tials.'' Our  defense  was  clear,  because,  we 
argued,  when  an  ambassador  asks  for  something, 
a  record  of  that  request  exists.  Ambassador  Her- 
rick  made  a  similar  declaration,  and  we  were  not 
only  released  but  ^'expressions  of  regret"  for  our 
''detention"  were  tendered  us. 

We  rented  a  car  and  a  French  chauffeur.  We 
wore  rough  clothes  and  heavy  overcoats,  we  took 
extra  socks,  collars,  soap,  shaving  utensils  and 
candles.  As  food  we  took  sardines,  salmon,  cocoa, 
biscuits,  coffee,  sausage,  bread,  bottles  of  wine 
and  water.  We  also  bought  an  alcohol  lamp, 
aluminum  plates,  collapsible  drinking  cups  and 
jack-knives.  At  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  we 
started. 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  75 

In  retrospect  I  divide  the  ensuing  days  into  two 
parts,  and  in  the  latter  part  I  believe  that  the 
high  water  mark  of  my  existence  was  reached — 
at  least  the  high  tide  from  the  standpoint  of  new 
sensations,  excitement,  and  genuine  thrills.  To 
digress  for  an  instant,  I  have  somewhere  read 
the  account  of  a  person,  a  well-known  novelist, 
who  visited  the  French  trenches  months  after  the 
period  I  shall  describe;  when  he  got  away  from 
his  censor  and  was  safe  back  in  America,  he 
reported  that  no  correspondents  have  really  seen 
anything  in  this  war — and  that  many  of  their 
stories  are  fakes.  Some  correspondents,  including 
this  one,  have  not  seen  much.  Some  stories  have 
been  fakes,  including  the  one  which  he  told.  I 
wish  it  were  permissible  to  enumerate  some  of  the 
fakes  in  detail — but  I  wish  for  the  sake  of  this  per- 
son that  he  had  been  along  in  either  the  second 
or  the  first  portions  of  that  trip; — when,  just  a 
few  miles  outside  Paris,  we  first  heard  the  Sen- 
tries in  the  Dark — ^when,  the  next  morning  we  met 
the  first  batch  of  Wounded  Who  Could  Walk — 
and  later,  when  we  ate  luncheon  to  an  orchestra 
of  bursting  shells,  a  luncheon  ordered  quietly — to 
be  eaten  quietly,  during  a  Lull  in  the  Bombard- 
ment. 


76  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

(A)  Sentries  in  the  Dark 

The  car  whizzed  down  tlie  straight  country 
road.  We  were  trying  to  make  night  quarters 
thirty  kilometers  away.  The  dusk  was  already 
upon  us — and  the  rain.  Every  night  for  a  week 
the  rain  had  come  at  dusk.  We  were  well  behind 
the  battle  lines,  but  the  Germans  had  held  that 
countryside  only  a  few  days  before.  Many  of 
them  still  lurked  in  the  dense  woods.  At  dusk 
they  were  apt  to  shoot  at  passing  motors.  If  they 
killed  the  occupants,  they  secured  clothes  and  cre- 
dentials and  attempted  cutting  through  to  their 
own  lines.  The  night  before,  a  French  general 
had  been  killed  on  the  road  we  were  passing. 
Therefore  it  was  not  well  to  be  abroad  at  dusk, 
too  far  northward  on  the  battlefield  of  the  Aisne. 
But  we  had  cast  a  tire  and  lost  considerable  time. 
It  was  necessary  to  go  forward  or  strike  back 
toward  Paris.  To  remain  in  the  open  held  an 
additional  risk  of  being  stopped  by  a  British 
patrol — we  were  near  their  lines — and  the  British 
were  not  so  polite  as  the  French  about  requisition- 
ing big  touring  cars.  Our  credentials  were 
French. 

So  we  dipped  into  the  night  down  a  long  road 
that  ran  between  solid  shadows  of  towering  trees. 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  77 

behind  which  ran  the  continuous  hedge  of  the 
French  countryside,  making  an  ideal  hiding  place 
for  enemies.  The  rain  increased  and  so  did  the 
cold.  Our  French  driver  struggled  into  an  ulster 
and  we  crouched  low  in  the  body  of  the  limousine, 
watching  the  whirling  road  revealed  by  our  pow- 
erful headlights  fifty  yards  in  front  of  the  car. 

Suddenly  came  a  sharp  cry.  The  chauffeur 
crashed  on  the  brakes  and  the  car  slid  to  a  stand- 
still. I  knew  that  cry  from  many  a  novel  I  had 
read,  but  I  had  never  actually  heard  it  before.  It 
was  the  famous  ^ '  Qui  vive ' '  or  ^ '  Who  goes  there  1 ' ' 
of  the  French  army.  We  sat  waiting.  We  saw 
no  one.     The  rain  poured  down. 

The  cry  was  repeated.  A  soldier  stepped  into 
the  road  and  stood  in  the  light  of  our  lamps  about 
thirty  feet  away.  His  rifle  was  half  thrown  across 
his  arm  and  half  aimed  towards  us.  He  was  a 
tall,  handsome  chap  wearing  a  long  coat  buttoned 
back  at  the  bottom  away  from  his  muddy  boots. 
His  cap  was  jammed  carelessly  over  one  eye.  He 
bent  forward  and  peered  at  us  under  our  lights, 
which  half  blinded  him.  Then  we  saw  two  dusky 
shadows  at  either  side  of  the  car.  We  caught  the 
steel  flash  of  bayonets  turned  toward  us. 

The  chauffeur  saw  them  too,  for  he  cried  out 
nervously,  *  *  Non,  non ! '  *    The  soldier  in  the  road 


78  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

ignored  him.  In  the  dramatic  language  of  France 
bis  ^^Avancez — donnez  Ic  mot  dc  la  nult"  sounded 
far  more  impressive  than  the  English  equivalent 
about  advancing  to  give  the  countersign.  He 
spoke  the  words  simply,  a  little  monotonously, 
with  an  air  of  having  done  it  many  times  during 
his  period  of  watch.  Then  he  bent  lower  and 
peered  more  intently  under  the  lights,  brushing 
one  arm  across  his  face  as  though  the  pelting  rain 
also  interfered  with  his  business  of  seeing  in  the 
night. 

The  chauffeur  stated  that  we  carried  the  signed 
pass  of  General  Gallieni.  If  we  had  mentioned 
the  Mayor  of  Chicago  we  would  not  have  made 
less  impression.  The  ghostly  sentries  at  the  sides 
of  the  car  did  not  budge.  The  patrol  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  road  in  the  same  almost  monotone 
announced  that  one  of  us  would  descend.  One 
would  be  sufficient.  The  others  might  keep  the 
shelter  of  the  car.  But  he  would  see  these  cre- 
dentials from  General  X .     If  to  him  they  did 

not  appear  in  order,  our  fate  was  a  matter  within 
his  discretion.  AVe  were  traveling  an  important 
highway  and  his  orders  were  definite.  So  the 
member  of  our  party  who  carried  the  important 
slip  of  paper  descended. 

The  sentry  in  the  road  moved  further  into  the 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  79 

light.  As  he  read  the  pass  he  sheltered  it  from 
the  rain  under  the  cape  of  his  coat.  The  guards 
at  the  sides  of  the  car  remained  as  though  built 
in  position.  Then  the  leader  handed  back  the 
paper  and  brought  his  hand  to  salute.  The  others 
immediately  broke  their  pose;  moved  into  the 
light  and  likewise  saluted.  The  tension  relieved, 
we  all  felt  friendly.  As  we  started  forward  I  held 
a  newspaper  out  of  the  window  and  three  hands 
grasped  it  simultaneously.  We  had  hundreds  of 
newspapers,  for  some  one  had  told  us  how  welcome 
they  would  be  at  the  front. 

At  an  intersection  of  roads  a  couple  of  miles 
further  on,  the  rain  was  pelting  down  so  fiercely 
that  we  did  not  clearly  hear  the  ^  ^  qui  vive. '  *  The 
chauffeur  desperately  called  out  not  to  shoot  as  a 
file  of  soldiers  suddenly  swung  across  the  road 
with  rifles  leveled.  On  their  leader  we  then  tried 
an  experiment  which  we  afterwards  followed  reli- 
giously. We  handed  over  a  newspaper  with  our 
pass.  To  our  surprise  he  turned  first  to  the  gov- 
ernment war  communique  on  the  first  page  and 
read  it  through,  grunting  his  satisfaction  mean- 
while, before  he  even  glanced  at  the  document 
which  held  our  fate  and  on  which  the  rain  was 
making  great  inky  smears.  Then  he  saluted  and 
we  drove  on  rapidly — everybody  smiling. 


8o  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

The  road  then  led  up  an  incline  through  a  small 
village  that  was  filled  with  soldiers.  A  patrol 
halted  us  as  usual  and  informed  us  that  there  was 
no  hotel  within  another  five  miles,  and  possibly 
even  that  hotel  might  be  closed.  At  this  news  our 
excitable  chauffeur  immediately  killed  his  engine 
and  the  car  started  slipping  backward  down  the 
incline.  Fifty  soldiers  leaped  forward  and  held 
it  while  the  brakes  were  applied.  We  distributed 
a  score  of  newspapers  and  as  many  cigarettes 
before  we  could  get  under  way. 

We  passed  no  more  patrols,  but  when  our  lights 
finally  picked  out  the  first  signs  of  the  next  village 
they  also  brought  into  bold  relief  a  pile  of 
masonry  completely  blocking  the  road.  We 
stopped.  A  villager  loomed  out  of  the  dark  at  the 
side  of  the  car  and  informed  us  that  the  road  was 
barred  because  the  bridge  just  beyond  had  been 
blown  up  and  that  we  could  not  pass  over  the  pon- 
toon until  morning.  The  inn,  he  said,  had  never 
been  closed  nor  was  its  stock  of  tobacco  yet 
exhausted.  He  offered  to  conduct  us,  and  when 
the  innkeeper — a  very  fat  innkeeper — looked  over 
our  credentials  from  General  Gallieni  he  insisted 
that  certain  guests  should  double  up,  in  order  to 
make  room  for  us  in  the  crowded  place.  He  then 
called  his  wife,  his  daughter,  his  father  and  his 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  8i 

father's  wife,  that  they  might  be  permitted  the 
honor  of  shaking  us  by  the  hand,  as  he  held  aloft 
the  candle,  the  flame  of  which  flickered  down  the 
ancient  stone  corridor  that  led  to  our  rooms. 

(B)  The  Wounded  Who  Could  Walk 

We  were  crossing  a  battlefield  four  days  old. 
It  was  remarkable  how  much  it  resembled  the  ordi- 
nary kind  of  field.  The  French  had  conquered 
quickly  at  this  point  and  the  dead  had  been  buried. 
Except  for  frequent  mounds  of  earth  headed  by 
sticks  forming  crosses;  except  for  the  marks  of 
shrapnel  in  the  roads  and  on  the  trees;  except 
for  the  absence  of  every  living  thing,  this  country- 
side was  at  peace.  The  sun  was  shining.  The 
frost  had  brought  out  flaming  tints  on  the  hills. 
It  was  glorious  Indian  summer. 

The  road  we  were  motoring  wound  far  away 
through  the  battlefield.  For  the  armies  had 
fought  over  a  front  of  many  miles.  We  traveled 
slowly.  As  we  topped  a  rise  and  searched  the 
valley  below  with  our  glasses,  a  mile  away  in 
the  cup  of  the  valley  we  saw  a  moving  mass.  It 
filled  the  roadway  from  hedge  to  hedge  and 
appeared  to  be  approaching  us.  We  drove  more 
slowly,  stopping  several  times.  The  movement  of 
the  car  made  the  glasses  quiver  and  blur.    We 


82  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

saw  that  the  moving  mass  stretched  back  a  con- 
siderable distance — perhaps  the  length  of  a  city 
block.  We  stopped  our  engine  and  waited  in  the 
center  of  the  road. 

As  the  mass  came  nearer  it  outlined  itself  into 
men.  We  saw  that  they  were  soldiers;  but  we 
could  not  distinguish  the  uniform.  So  we  waited. 
We  even  got  our  papers  ready  to  show  if  neces- 
sary. Then  we  saw  that  the  soldiers  were  not 
of  the  same  regiment — that  their  uniforms  were 
conglomerate.  We  saw  the  misfits  of  the  French 
line  regiments,  the  gay  trappings  of  the  Spahis 
and  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  the  skirt  trousers  of  the 
Zouaves,  Turcos  and  Senegalese,  the  khaki  of  the 
English  Tommies  and  the  turbans  of  the  Hindoos. 
But  all  these  men  in  the  varied  costumes  of  the 
army  of  the  Allies  wore  one  common  mark — a 
bandage.  Arm  or  head  or  face  was  wrapped  in 
white  cloths,  usually  stained  with  blood.  For 
these  on  whom  we  waited  were  the  wounded  who 
could  walk.  They  were  going  from  the  battle 
trenches  to  somewhere  in  the  rear. 

The  front  rank  glanced  wonderingly  at  the  big 
motor  that  blocked  the  center  of  the  road  and 
moved  aside  in  either  direction.  Those  behind 
did  likewise,  until  there  was  a  lane  for  the  car  to 
pass.    But  we  waited.    As  the  front  rank  came 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  83 

level  with  us,  a  dust-caked  British  Tommy,  with 
a  bloody  bandage  over  one  eye,  winked  his  good 
one  at  us  and  touched  his  cap  in  salute.  We  took 
our  hats  otf  as  the  tragic  crowd  surrounded  us. 
Tommy  sat  down  on  our  running  board  and  I 
handed  him  a  cigarette. 

The  cigarette  established  cordial  relations  at 
once.  Tommy's  lean  face  was  browned  by  the  sun 
and  streaked  with  dirt.  About  the  bandage  which 
encircled  his  head  and  crossed  his  right  eye  were 
cakes  of  dirt  and  clots  of  blood.  His  hair  where 
his  cap  was  pushed  back  was  sand  color  and 
crinkly.  The  eye  that  turned  up  to  me  was  pale 
blue  and  the  skin  just  about  it  was  white  and  blue 
veined. 

**Is  this  Frawnce  or  is  it  Belgium  T'  he  asked 
me.  At  my  answer  he  squirmed  around  on  the 
running  board,  calling  to  a  companion  in  khaki 
just  coming  up — his  arm  in  a  sling — ^*  'Ee  says 
it's  Frawnce.''  The  other  nodded  indifferently 
and  saluted  us. 

I  asked  the  man  about  the  battle,  but  he  only 
stared.  His  friend  on  the  running  board  turned 
his  eye  upward  and  said,  *^It's  'ell,  that's  wot  it 
is. "  I  replied  that  my  question  had  to  do  with  the 
course  of  the  battle — which  side  was  winning ;  and 
he  too  only  stared  at  that.     Then  he  arose  and 


84  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

plodded  on  and  I  gave  a  cigarette  to  his  compan- 
ion. 

A  score  of  men  stood  about  the  front  of  the  car 
where  the  chauffeur  was  busy  handing  out  apples 
and  pears.  My  companions  were  busy  on  the 
opposite  side  with  a  dozen  French  infantrymen, 
telling  the  latest  news  from  Paris  and  giving  out 
newspapers.  I  leaned  over  them,  the  box  of  cigar- 
ettes still  in  my  hand.  A  tall  Senegalese  stand- 
ing back  from  the  group  caught  sight  of  the  box 
and  called  out,  '  ^  Cigarette,  eh ! '  *  I  motioned  him 
to  my  side  of  the  car.  He  came  running  weakly, 
followed  at  once  by  fifty  others.  I  handed  out 
until  that  box  and  several  others  that  I  dug  from 
my  valise  were  exhausted.  I  called  several  times 
that  I  had  no  more,  but  still  they  crowded  about, 
stretching  out  their  arms  and  crying,  **  Cigarette, 
ehf  One  of  my  companio-ns  warned  me  that  we 
might  ourselves  feel  the  want  of  tobacco — that 
money  would  not  buy  it  in  the  country  we  were 
traversing,  because  it  did  not  exist. 

AVe  still  had  a  box  of  cigars  and  I  had  several 
loose  in  my  pocket.  The  black  face  of  a  Turco 
appeared  at  the  car  window.  One  arm  was  in  a 
sling  and  a  bandage  w^as  wound  about  his  brow. 
But  his  eyes  shone  brightly  at  the  thought  of 
tobacco,  and  at  the  smell  of  it  now  arising  on  all 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  85 

sides.  He  was  tobacco  hungry.  He  was  more 
than  that.  He  was  tobacco  starving.  He  poked 
his  other  arm  into  the  car.  I  motioned  him  to 
crowd  his  entire  bulk  into  the  window  so  that  the 
others  would  not  see.  Then  I  gave  him  a  cigar. 
He  hung  over  the  car  frame  as  I  held  out  the 
lighted  tip  of  my  own  cigar.  He  puffed  a  cloud 
into  the  interior.  He  looked  at  the  cigar  fondly 
and  seemed  to  measure  its  length.  It  was  a  good 
cigar.  If  it  had  been  a  miserable  cheroot  his 
regard  would  have  been  the  same.  He  took 
another  puff,  and  drew  a  complete  mouthful  into 
his  lungs.  His  cheeks  bulged  and  his  eyes  glinted 
inwards  as  though  he  looked  at  the  tip  of  his  nose. 
I  wondered  how  long  he  could  keep  that  huge 
mouthful  of  smoke  within  him.  Again  he  held 
the  cigar  close  to  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  measure 
its  length.  It  burned  perfectly  round  and  the  ash 
was  white  and  solid.  Finally  he  poured  forth  the 
smoke  from  nose  and  mouth  and  ejaculated  the 
only  English  word  he  knew — ^^good.^'  I  nodded 
and  asked  in  French  where  he  had  been  fighting. 
He  cocked  his  head  toward  the  fore  part  of  the 
car  and  took  another  puff.  I  asked  him  where 
he  had  been  wounded  and  he  replied  that  he  did 
not  know  but  that  it  occurred  in  the  trenches  '4a 
has. ' '     I  asked  him  how  long  he  had  been  fighting 


86  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

iu  France — how  long  since  he  had  left  Africa,  and 
he  spread  his  arm  far  out  to  indicate  that  the  time 
had  been  long.  I  asked  him  where  he  was  going; 
he  rolled  his  eyes  to  the  rear  of  the  car  and  said 
he  did  not  know. 

I  sank  back  in  my  seat  and  he  climbed  down 
into  the  road.  Most  of  the  troop  had  limped  off. 
To  the  few  still  lingering  we  indicated  that  our 
stock  of  things  to  give  away  was  exhausted. 
They  eyed  us  wistfully,  then  passed  on. 

The  chauffeur  asked  if  he  should  start  the  car, 
but  some  one  said,  *'No,  let's  wait  until  they  all 
pass. ' '  The  rear  guard  straggled  up ;  many  were 
ready  to  drop  with  fatigue  and  pain  and  loss  of 
blood.  I  asked  a  Britisher  how  long  they  had 
been  on  the  road.  He  replied  '^  since  sunrise '^  and 
plodded  stolidly  on.  It  was  then  noon.  Several 
sank  down  for  moments  under  the  trees  by  the 
roadside.  A  chasseur  stopped  and  asked  our 
chauffeur  to  tighten  a  thong  of  his  bandage,  which 
was  stained  with  fresh  blood.  We  asked  him 
where  they  were  going  and  he  replied  vaguely, 
*'To  the  rear.''  ''And  what  then  I"  one  of  us 
asked.  ''Oh!  I  hope  we  will  all  be  fighting  again 
soon, ' '  he  replied.  They  were  all  like  that.  They 
wanted  to  be  fighting  again  soon.  They  were  not 
happy.     They    were    not    unhappy.     They    were 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  87 

indifferent;  more  or  less,  made  so  by  utter  fatigue 
and  the  pain  of  their  wounds.  But  they  all 
wanted  to  be  fighting  again  soon. 

We  watched  them  top  the  rise  of  the  hill  to  dis- 
appear down  the  long  road  *'to  the  rear.*'  The 
last  straggler,  his  head  bound  with  white  and  red, 
vanished.  They  were  all  privates — all  common 
men  of  all  the  world  from  Scotland  to  Hindustan. 
The  majority  were  coming  from  and  going  they 
knew  not  where,  and  wanting  to  fight  again  for 
they  knew  not  what — except  possibly  the  men  of 
France,  who  began  to  hear  about  this  war  in  their 
cradles. 

We  cranked  up  the  car. 

(C)  A  Lull  in  the  Bombakdment 

The  sentry  just  outside  the  town  advised  us  to 
right  about  face  and  travel  the  other  direction. 
But  he  only  advised  us.  Our  credentials  appeared 
in  order  and  he  did  not  feel  that  he  could  issue  a 
command  on  the  subject.  In  fact  our  credentials 
were  very  much  in  order.  The  sentry  saluted  us 
most  respectfully ;  but  his  advice  was  wasted.  We 
argued  to  ourselves  that  if  we  went  to  *^the  front'' 
we  must  take  a  few  chances. 

So  we  entered  Soissons — one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  historic  towns  in  Northern  France.    It 


88  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

has  now  become  even  more  historic;  but  its  beauty 
has  changed  from  the  crumbling  medieval.  It  is 
a  ruin — more — a  remnant  of  the  Great  War. 

We  did  not  notice  this  so  much  as  we  rode  down 
the  winding  road  to  the  outskirts.  We  did  notice 
the  unusual  fall  of  autumn  foliage.  We  com- 
mented on  the  early  season;  the  preceding  night 
had  been  frosty,  following  rain.  Then  we  noticed 
many  branches  lying  across  the  road.  Many  trees 
were  chipped  as  mth  an  ax,  but  the  chipped 
places  were  high  up — out  of  reach.  We  wondered 
why  the  trees  were  chipped  so  high.  Then  we 
skirted  a  great  hole  in  the  center  of  the  road.  A 
tree  further  on  was  cut  off  close  to  the  ground. 
The  truth  came  to  us.  The  fallen  leaves  and  the 
chipped  places  were  the  work  of  bullets — a  multi- 
tude of  bullets.  The  hole  in  the  road  and  the 
fallen  tree  were  the  results  of  shells. 

We  saw  horses  lying  in  the  fields.  Their  legs 
stuck  rigidly  into  the  air.  Horses  were  lying 
along  the  roadside.  Insects  were  crawling  over 
them.     Fallen  trees  lined  the  way  into  the  town. 

We  turned  into  the  main  street  and  rattled  over 
its  cobblestones.  We  met  no  one.  Crossing  an 
open  square  we  saw  that  over  half  the  trees  were 
down.  Up  a  side  street  a  house  had  fallen  for- 
ward   from    its    foundations    and    settled    in    a 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  89 

crumbled  heap  in  the  center  of  the  road.  The  sun 
which  had  been  shining  brightly  went  behind  a 
cloud.  We  stopped  for  a  moment.  We  could 
hear  the  wind  sighing  in  the  tops  of  the  remain- 
ing trees.  Some  one  asked,  **Is  this  Sunday  f 
and  was  answered,  ^^No.  It's  Friday.  AVhyf 
He  replied,  **  Because  it  is  so  still.  Did  you  ever 
see  a  place  where  people  live  that  is  so  completely 
silent  I"  ^  *  It  reminds  me  of  London  on  Good  Fri- 
day— everybody  gone  to  church,''  said  another. 

We  drove  on.  A  block  along  the  main  street 
a  soldier  in  the  French  uniform  of  the  line  lounged 
in  a  doorway.  His  long  blue  overcoat  flapped 
desolately  over  his  baggy  red  trousers.  His  rifle 
leaned  in  the  corner.  We  asked  if  any  hotel 
remained  open.  He  replied,  '^I  don't  know. 
Have  you  a  cigarette!"  I  drew  out  a  box  and 
he  ran  to  the  car,  seizing  it  as  a  hungry  animal 
snatches  food.  He  settled  back  into  his  doorway, 
smiling;  then  said  in  French  argot  which  trans- 
lated into  American  best  reads:  ^^Do  you  guys 
know  you  ain't  safe  hereT'  We  smiled  and 
waited  explanation.  But  he  merely  shrugged  his 
shoulders.     We  started  the  car. 

More  French  soldiers  lounged  in  doorways. 
Once  we  saw  the  white  and  frightened  face  of  a 
woman  peering  at  us  from  a  window.     She  was 


90  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

entirely  incurious.  Her  gaze  was  dispassionate. 
She  appeared  to  have  not  the  slightest  interest 
either  in  us  or  our  big  car,  which  surely  was  a 
rare  sight  in  the  streets  of  that  town  on  that  day. 
But  the  fright  upon  her  face  was  stamped. 

Several  villagers  stood  at  the  next  corner. 
They  exhibited  interest.  We  again  asked  about 
a  hotel  and  one  pointed  to  a  building  we  had  just 
passed.  We  noted  that  its  doors  and  windows 
were  barred ;  but  we  thought  they  might  open  up. 

We  asked,  then,  when  the  firing  on  the  town 
had  ceased.  The  man  laughed.  Anything  so 
normal  as  a  laugh  seemed  out  of  place  in  that 
ghastly  silence.  It  grated.  But  it  seemed  that 
after  all  one  might  observe  the  function  of  laugh- 
ing even  during  war.  He  informed  us  that  the 
German  gninners  were  probably  at  lunch.  We 
asked  the  position  of  the  French  batteries,  and  as 
he  pointed  vaguely  toward  the  south  we  realized 
that  we  were  then  in  an  advance  position  on  the 
firing  line — that  the  force  of  soldiers  was  only  an 
outpost.  The  same  man  told  us  that  the  town  had 
been  under  fire  for  eight  days,  that  the  French 
had  shifted  the  position  of  their  heavy  guns  and 
that  the  Germans  were  now  trying  to  locate  them. 
We  returned  to  the  hotel,  stabled  our  automobile 
and  ordered  luncheon,  which  the  landlord  informed 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  91 

us  would  be  ready  in  half  an  hour.     So  we  con- 
tinued the  exploration  of  the  town  on  foot. 

The  chauffeur  did  not  accompany  us,  for  there 
was  a  captured  German  automobile  in  the  barn 
that  interested  him  greatly.  Under  the  seat  he 
found  the  army  papers  of  the  German  driver.  He 
advised  us  not  to  touch  them.  They  were  danger- 
ous. If  found  in  our  possession  we  might  be 
arrested  as  spies.  So  we  dropped  them  back 
under  the  seat,  and  went  out  into  the  market  place. 

As  is  usual  in  small  French  cities  the  market 
consisted  of  a  large  building  entirely  open  at  the 
ends  and  fronting  on  a  large  square  paved  with 
cobbles.  We  walked  into  the  building;  it  was 
deserted  and  our  footsteps  echoed.  In  the  center 
was  a  pile  of  masonry,  beneath  a  large  hole  in  the 
roof  torn  by  a  shell.  The  explosion  had  cracked 
the  side  walls.  In  one  of  the  cracks  was  jammed 
the  top  of  a  meat  table,  forcibly  caught  up  from 
the  floor  and  hurled  there.  A  little  further  on  a 
shell  had  passed  through  both  side  walls,  leaving 
clean  holes  larg.e  enough  for  a  man  to  stand. 

I  stood  in  one  of  them  and  saw  where  the  shell 
had  spent  its  force  on  a  residence  across  the 
square.  It  had  caught  the  house  plumb  on  a  cor- 
ner and  at  the  floor  of  the  second  story,  so  that 
the  floor  sagged  down  into  the  room  below.     The 


92  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

room  above  had  been  a  bedchamber.     The  entire 
side  wall  was  gone,  so  all  that  remained  of  the 
intimacies  of  the  room  were  exposed.     The  bed 
with  the  covers  thrown  back  as  though  the  occu- 
pant quitted  it  hurriedly  had  slipped  forward  until 
stopped   by    a    broken    bit    of    the    wall.     From 
another  jagged  piece  of  masonr}^  that  formed  part 
of  the  wall  the  blue  skirt  of  a  child  flapped  deso- 
lately over  the  sidewalk.    We  left  the   market 
building  and  stood  in  the  center  of  the  square  look- 
ing down  the  six  streets  that  emptied  into  it. 
They  were  narrow,  winding  streets,  and  we  could 
not  see  far.    But  in  all  we  could  see  the  ruin — 
the  crumbled  masonry  and  walls  blackened  by  fire. 
We  looked  at  our  watches  and  hurried  toward 
the  hotel.     Entering  the  street,  about  half  a  block 
distant,  we  stopped  to  look  down  a  side  alley.    As 
we  looked  we  heard  what  seemed  to  be  a  shrill 
whistle,    pitched   high   and   very   prolonged.    It 
seemed  like  the  shriek  of  a  suddenly  rising  wind ; 
but  it  was  followed  by  a  dull  boom  and  the  crash 
of  falling  masonry.    We  looked  behind  us  and  saw 
clouds  of  smoke  and  dust  rising  a  short  distance 
beyond  the  market  place.    We  ran  toward  the 
hotel.     At  the  entrance  we  again  heard  the  high- 
pitched  screaming  whistle,  ending  in  a  crash  much 
more  acute.     ^'That  struck  nearer,"  one  of  us 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE  93 

observed.  But  we  did  not  wait  to  see.  As  we 
entered  the  hall,  the  landlord  remarked,  ''Ca  com- 
mence encore/' 

We  filed  into  the  dining  room  in  time  to  see  him 
carefully  place  the  soup  upon  the  table. 


CHAPTER  IX 

** detained''  by  the  colonel 

We  had  just  passed  a  sentry  on  the  outskirts  of 
a  village.  He  had  brought  his  rifle  to  an  imposing 
salute  as  he  read  the  name  upon  our  military  cre- 
dentials. One  of  my  companions,  smiling  fatu- 
ously, remarked: 

^^Well,  fellows,  this  is  a  real  pass.  It  gets  us 
anywhere. ' ' 

At  that  very  instant  the  Colonel  leaped  on  the 
running  board  of  our  automobile. 

He  too  was  smiling,  but  not  fatuously.  Al- 
though he  was  French  he  was  sufficiently  an 
Anglophile  to  affect  a  monocle,  and  this  gave  a 
chilling,  glassy  effect  to  his  smile. 

^  ^  Your  pass ! "  he  said,  stretching  out  his  hand, 
at  the  same  time  signaling  the  chauffeur  to  stop. 
The  pass  was  given  him,  one  of  us  explaining 
that  we  had  just  shown  it  to  a  sentry,  who  had 
permitted  us  to  enter  the  town. 

*'Ah,  quite  so,''  he  murmured.  He  carefully 
read  the  pa^s,  screwing  his  monocle  into  his  eye. 

94 


"DETAINED"  BY  THE  COLONEL   95 

'^Ah,  quite  so.  But  you  will  please  follow 
me."  He  signaled  us  to  get  out  of  the  car  and 
directed  the  chauffeur  to  turn  to  the  side  of  the 
road  and  to  remain  there.  Then  he  led  the  way 
down  a  narrow  lane.  At  the  door  of  a  small 
house  he  told  us  to  wait.  He  left  the  door  open 
and  we  saw  him  pass  down  the  hall  and  into  a 
rear  room.     Then  came  a  burst  of  laughter. 

^^More  'journalistes  Americains/  ''  we  heard; 
and  then  another  peal  of  merriment.  We  stood 
about  the  doorstep  and  wondered. 

The  Colonel  reappeared  and  again  directed  us 
to  follow.  This  time  he  led  the  way  to  a  barn 
a  short  distance  along  the  road.  A  cow  yard 
surrounded  the  barn,  enclosed  by  a  high  stone 
wall.  At  the  gate  stood  a  soldier  with  fixed 
bayonet.  On  the  gate-post  was  written  a  single 
word. 

I  had  been  suspecting  for  several  minutes  that 
a  hitch  had  occurred  in  our  plans  for  going  war- 
corresponding.  My  companions  had  similar 
ideas,  but  we  had  kept  silent.  Now,  as  we  stared 
at  this  word  written  on  the  wall,  I  turned  to  the 
chap  who  had  spoken  so  confidently  about  our 
pass. 

*^You  were  right  about  the  pass,'^  I  said.  ^^It 
gets  u§  anywhere.'' 


96  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

For  the  word  written  on  the  wall  was  *  *  Prison. ' ' 

The  Colonel  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  cow 
yard,  twirled  his  mustache,  and  screwed  his 
monocle.  He  bowed.  We  bowed.  Then  we  pre- 
ceded him  through  the  gate. 

A  derisive  yell  greeted  us  from  a  quartet 
seated  on  a  wooden  bench  outside  the  door  of  the 
barn.  The  quartet  arose  and  came  towards  us 
laughing. 

^^You  know  these  men?'^  asked  the  Colonel. 

Oh,  yes,  we  knew  them.  They  too  were  news- 
paper men,  at  least  three  of  them.  Two  repre- 
sented Italian  papers,  one  an  Amsterdam  journal. 
The  fourth  was  an  Italian  nobleman  whose  name 
was  frequently  in  the  social  columns  because  of 
his  dinners  at  the  Eitz  and  Armenonville.  He 
explained  that  he  had  accompanied  the  others  as 
their  gentleman  chauffeur,  driving  his  own  big 
car.  It  had  been  requisitioned  for  the  army  at 
the  same  moment  they  themselves  were  escorted 
into  the  cow  yard  three  days  before.  The  Colo- 
nel stood  by  during  our  greetings,  still  twirhng 
his  mustache.    He  addressed  the  quartet. 

^* Since  you  know  these  men,''  he  said,  indica- 
ting us,  **you  will  please  explain  to  them  where 
they  will  sleep  and  the  arrangements  for  food.'' 


"DETAINED"  BY  THE  COLONEL   97 

Then  lie  turned  to  us,  at  the  same  time  pointing 
to  a  comer  of  the  building  nearest  the  wall  gate. 
He  said: 

^^You  are  permitted  to  remain  out  of  doors  as 
much  as  you  Hke,  but  you  are  not  to  pass  that 
comer.  If  you  do — ^well — ''  a  shrug  and  the 
monocled  smile,  *^the  soldier  at  the  gate  will 
probably  shoot." 

The  sage  of  our  party  became  sarcastic. 

**I  presume  that  the  soldier's  gun  is  loaded,'' 
he  remarked. 

*^0h,  yes,"  the  Colonel  still  smiled.  *'The  gun 
is  always  ready — also  the  bayonet — it  would  be 
regrettable — "  again  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

**But  why  are  we  prisoners,"  the  sage  one  de- 
manded, *^and  where  is  our  pass  I  If  we  cannot 
go  on  we  will  go  back  to  Paris.  What  right  have 
you  to  keep  us  here?" 

The  Colonel  raised  his  eyebrows  and  spread 
out  his  hands.  His  tones  were  so  polite  as  to  be 
almost  apologetic. 

** Right?"  he  questioned.  *^My  dear  fellow,  it 
is  simply  a  question  of  the  force  majeure.  And 
besides  you  are  not  prisoners." 

'^Not  prisoners?"  we  shouted  in  unison.  ^^If 
we  are  not  prisoners,  then  what  are  we?" 


98  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

**You  are  not  prisoners,'*  the  Colonel  insisted. 
**You  are  simply  detained.  You  can  neither  go 
forward  nor  back  until  I  receive  further  instruc- 
tions concerning  you.  For  the  moment  you  are 
my  guests. '* 

He  bowed  politely  and  gracefully. 

**Aiid  the  soldier  with  the  rifle!  And  the  dead 
line  at  the  corner  of  the  building?'* 

''Ah,  quite  so — quite  so,"  murmured  the  Colo- 
nel; then  bowed  again  to  us  and  went  out  the 
gate. 

''Consequential  little  cuss,"  sputtered  one  of 
our  trio. 

"Better  play  up  to  him,"  advised  one  of  the 
Italians.  "We  have  been  here  three  days. 
Come  see  where  we  sleep — " 

They  led  the  way  to  a  stone  outhouse  near  one 
end  of  the  stable.  A  soldier  with  loaded  rifle  sat 
in  the  door.  We  peered  within.  Two  cow  stalls 
heaped  with  filthy  straw.  One  of  the  stalls  was 
empty;  in  the  other  we  could  dimly  discern  some 
huddled  forms. 

"We  sleep  in  the  empty  one,"  our  confreres 
informed  us.    "You  will  sleep  there  too." 

"And  those  in  the  other  stall?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  those!  They  are  German  spies  captured 
during  the  day.     They  take  them  out  every  morn- 


"DETAINED"  BY  THE  COLONEL   99 

ing — they  don't  come  back — fresh  ones  take  their 
places/' 

I  shuddered.  **What  becomes  of  themT'  No 
one  answered  and  the  other  Italian  said:  ^^ Don't 
talk  about  such  things.  We  too  are  prisoners, 
you  know." 

*^0h,  no,"  said  some  one.  **We  are  not  pris- 
oners— we  are  merely  detained — guests  of  the 
Colonel." 

That  evening  the  Colonel  clattered  into  the  yard 
on  horseback.  About  twenty  of  his  men  were  loaf- 
ing about.  On  his  appearance  there  was  a  great 
to-do.  They  sprang  stiffly  to  attention  in  lines  on 
either  side  of  the  horse.  I  learned  later  that  this 
was  the  regular  evening  ceremony  when  the  Colo- 
nel returned  from  his  ride.  I  had  to  admit  that  he 
cut  a  fine  figure  on  a  horse.  His  body  was  slen- 
der and  very  straight.  His  hair  slightly  grizzled, 
his  face  grim,  but  with  always  that  glassy,  haughty 
smile.  He  wore  high  boots  of  the  finest  leather. 
His  spurs  jingled.  His  uniform  was  immaculate. 
His  cape  swung  jauntily  over  one  shoulder.  His 
sword  clanged.  His  medals  were  resplendent. 
His  head  was  held  high  as  he  rigidly  returned  the 
salutes.  At  every  moment  I  expected  to  hear  the 
orchestra's  opening  bars,  and  the  Colonel  proclaim 
in  a  fine  baritone,  ^*0h,  the  Colonel  of  the  regiment 


100  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

am  I,'^  with  the  soldier  chorus  echoing,  *Hhe  Colo- 
nel of  the  regiment  is  he.'' 

However,  the  Colonel  dismounted  into  very  real 
pools  of  mud  and  manure. 

^' Les  correspondants  Ainericains ! ^ '  he  shouted. 

We  lined  up — hopefully — before  him. 

'*Your  automobile,''  he  informed  us  curtly,  **has 
become  the  property  of  the  army.  I  have  directed 
that  your  overcoats  and  other  belongings,  and  the 
food  you  carry  with  you,  be  brought  to  you  here. 
You  may  eat  this  food  and  also  draw  your  daily 
ration  of  the  army  fare. ' ' 

This  was  a  concession;  and  one  of  the  Italians, 
who  had  drawn  near,  immediately  asked  for 
another. 

^'Now  that  there  are  seven  of  us,"  he  asked 
** can't  we  have  an  audience  with  the  commanding 
general  of  this  division?" 

The  Colonel  considered,  then  said:  **If  you  ask 
an  audience  for  only  one  of  your  number,  you  may 
draw  up  a  petition. ' ' 

The  Italian,  having  made  the  suggestion,  wrote 
the  petition,  we  all  signed  it  and  an  hour  later  he 
was  led  away  between  files  of  soldiers  to  see  the 
General.  Returning,  after  only  a  few  minutes,  he 
said  the  General  had  received  him  courteously  but 


"DETAINED"  BY  THE  COLONEL      loi 

would  give  him  no  satisfaction,  saying  that  he  was 
waiting  for  instructions  concerning  us  from  Gen- 
eral Joffre. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  then  but  make  the  best 
of  it. 

At  six  o'clock  the  Colonel's  cook  informed  us 
that  we  could  go  to  the  great  open  oven  in  the  cow 
yard  and  draw  our  evening  rations.  It  was  lucky 
that  we  had  our  aluminum  plates,  for  there  were 
no  others  for  us.  We  filed  across  the  yard  with 
the  soldiers  and  got  a  mixture  of  beans  and  beef 
that  was  decidedly  unpalatable  even  though  we 
flavored  it  with  our  own  wine  and  bread.  As  we 
finished  it,  our  chauffeur,  a  trench  '^reforme,'' 
appeared  in  the  kitchen.  He  told  us  he  was  not 
a  prisoner  but  was  ^^ detained"  in  the  town  with 
the  car.  He  asked  for  a  bottle  of  our  wine,  which 
we  gave  him,  with  a  cake  of  chocolate,  and  a  bot- 
tle of  our  water. 

My  two  friends  and  myself  then  discussed  our 
sleeping  problem.  We  had  resolved  not  to  sleep 
in  that  outhouse  with  the  Germans.  When  the 
Colonel  next  came  into  the  yard  we  tackled  him, 
asking  if  we  might  not  have  the  freedom  of  the 
town  under  parole,  in  order  to  find  beds. 

He  said  he  could  not  consider  it. 


102  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

''Then/'  said  our  spokesman,  ''rather  than 
sleep  in  the  outhouse  may  we  stay  here  in  the 
yard!" 

The  Colonel  stiffened  with  sudden  resentment 
at  our  making  so  many  difficulties.  He  strode 
fiercely  to  a  door  of  the  stable  and  threw  it  open, 
showing  piles  of  straw  on  the  earthen  floor. 

"There  I  sleep  with  my  officers,"  he  said  with 
dignified  reproach. 

"But,''  we  explained,  "it  is  not  the  hardship 
to  which  we  object.  We  do  not  wish  to  be  classi- 
fied and  kept  in  the  same  place  with  German 
spies." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Colonel.  He  stared  a  moment, 
then  smiled.  He  was  human  after  all.  He  could 
appreciate  that  point  and  liked  us  the  better  for 
making  it. 

He  said  we  might  stay  in  the  yard  and  then, 
after  stamping  about  the  room  a  few  minutes,  he 
pointed  to  a  ladder  to  a  loft  above  his  quarters  and 
said: 

"You  may  use  that  place  if  you  like.  It  is 
not  occupied.  The  others  can  sleep  there  too  if 
they  like." 

We  quickly  scaled  the  ladder  and  discovered 
a  large,  bare  room  that  had  evidently  been  used 
as  a  granar}%  for  there  were  piles  of  grain  and 


"DETAINED"  BY  THE  COLONEL      103 

some  farm  implements  lying  about.  A  small 
window,  which  the  Colonel  had  evidently  over- 
looked, opened  on  to  the  street  and  also  a  great 
door  on  the  courtyard. 

At  eight  o'clock  we  stumbled  up  into  our  loft, 
lighted  a  candle  and  fixed  up  our  beds.  We  had 
bought  some  straw  for  two  francs,  from  a  farmer 
one  of  the  soldiers  found  for  us.  The  beds  were 
hard  and  uncomfortable.  Naturally  we  slept  in 
all  our  clothes  and  with  our  coats  over  us  also; 
but  by  morning  we  were  chilled  through,  for  the 
wind  howled  through  all  the  cracks,  and  several 
panes  of  glass  in  the  window  were  broken.  So  at 
least  we  had  fresh  air. 

All  through  the  previous  afternoon  we  had 
heard  the  constant  booming  of  heavy  artillery, 
which  the  Colonel  said  was  about  twelve  miles 
away,  and  was  the  bombardment  of  Rheims, 
which  he  very  openly  stated  was  then  in  process 
of  destruction,  chiefly  by  fire.  At  four  in  the 
morning  this  cannonade  again  started,  waking  us 
up.  We  rose  and  descended  to  the  yard  followed 
by  the  sleepy  Italian  quartet.  We  found  the 
Colonel,  very  wide  awake,  spick  and  span.  He 
fixed  the  Italians  with  his  monocle. 

**I  understand  that  one  of  them  is  a  prince,'' 
he  said.     *^Tell  me  which  one." 


104  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

We  pointed  out  the  nobleman,  who  was  the 
smallest  and  the  most  dispirited  of  the  lot. 

The  Colonel  granted : 

**A  prince,  eh?  Well,  I  like  his  automobile 
quite  well.'* 

That  day  we  got  another  bench  to  sit  on  and 
a  box  that  we  transformed  into  a  dining  table. 
With  some  candles  we  rigged  up  a  lantern.  For 
a  table-cloth  we  had  some  old  canvas  maps. 
These  were  furnished  by  the  Colonel  himself.  In 
fact  after  we  once  got  behind  that  monocle  we 
came  to  like  our  Colonel  immensely.  It  was  plain 
that  he  liked  ^'les  Americains"  better  than  the 
others.  Although  he  could  not  officially  recog- 
nize all  that  we  did,  it  was  understood  that  we 
were  permitted  to  bribe  his  cook.  So  we  had 
real  coffee  for  breakfast.  We  had  vegetables  not 
included  in  the  army  menu;  and  on  one  great 
occasion  we  secured  enough  apples  and  pears  to 
make  a  magnificent  compote  in  our  little  alcohol 
stove. 

We  got  up  the  second  morning  about  6.30, 
greatly  discouraged,  although  the  Colonel's  cook, 
to  whom  we  had  given  twenty  francs  the  night 
before,  brought  us  coffee.  There  was  no  water 
to  be  had  until  the  soldiers  had  finished  at  the 
pump,  and  we  did  not  have  moral  courage  enough 


"DETAINED"  BY  THE  COLONEL      105 

to  shave  or  wash  anyhow;  we  just  stood  around 
the  courtyard  in  a  drizzle  of  rain,  cursing  every- 
thing and  everybody,  chiefly  our  captors.  We 
argued  over  and  over  again  that  it  was  ridicu- 
lous to  arrest  us ;  if  our  pass  was  no  longer  valid 
the  thing  to  do  was  to  send  us  back  to  Paris,  under 
guard  if  necessary. 

That  morning  one  of  the  Italians  dropped  a 
letter  out  of  the  window  of  our  loft  opening  on 
the  street,  to  a  soldier,  who  said  he  would  post 
it  in  Paris.  It  was  addressed  to  the  ^'Gaulois'' 
and  contained  a  note  from  us  to  the  American 
Ambassador,  which  I  learned  later  never  saw  its 
destination.  The  first  news  of  our  whereabouts 
reached  Paris  in  a  message  that  our  chauffeur 
sent  by  hand  to  the  automobile  company,  merely 
saying  that  the  car  had  been  requisitioned;  and 
we  did  not  know  about  this  until  we  returned  to 
Paris. 

We  also  drafted  a  long  letter  to  the  Command- 
ing G-eneral,  asking  to  send  an  enclosed  telegram 
to  Ambassador  Herrick.  The  telegram  stated 
that  the  three  of  us  were  detained  at  that  point, 
and  asked  him  to  notify  our  offices  in  Paris.  The 
Colonel  took  this  letter  and  said  he  would  deliver 
it  to  the  General ;  but  the  telegram  enclosed  never 
reached  Paris. 


io6  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

At  five  o'clock  the  third  morning  we  were 
awakened  by  a  soldier  coming  into  the  loft  and 
waving  a  lantern  over  us  as  we  lay  on  the  floor. 
He  called  out  the  names  of  the  quartet  and  told 
them  to  follow  him.  They  did  so,  and  that  was 
the  last  we  saw  of  them.  I  confess  it  gave  us 
rather  an  extra  chill,  even  though  we  were  all 
chilled  to  the  bone  from  the  weather,  to  see  them 
led  out  in  that  fashion  and  at  that  ghastly  hour. 
It  was  still  very  dark.  We  heard  them  clatter 
out  into  the  courtyard.  I  peered  out  of  the  loft 
door  and  dimly  saw  a  file  of  soldiers.  I  heard 
one  of  our  late  companions  complaining  about  the 
loss  of  his  hat. 

At  breakfast  our  fears  were  set  at  rest  by 
the  Colonel  explaining  that  as  the  quartet  had 
been  arrested  before  us  their  case  had  been 
settled  first,  and  that  they  had  been  taken  to 
Paris.  He  had  found  the  missing  hat,  which  he 
gave  to  me,  and  asked  anxiously  whether  I 
would  search  out  the  owner  when  I  returned  to 
Paris.  Inasmuch  as  this  was  some  indication 
that  I  really  might  see  Paris  again,  I  gladly  prom- 
ised. 

The  weather  cleared  and  we  passed  considerable 
time  in  the  yard.  A  small  enclosed  orchard  lay 
adjoining  the  courtyard,  and  one  afternoon  the 


^'DETAINED"  BY  THE  COLONEL      107 

Colonel  gave  us  permission  to  walk  there.  We 
found  some  wild  flowers  and  put  them  in  our 
buttonholes.  This  touch  of  elegance  called  forth 
the  admiration  of  the  Colonel  when  we  again  saw 
him. 

^^C'est  comme  a  Paris/'  he  said. 

We  even  got  up  enough  courage  to  shave  and 
scrape  the  mud  off  our  clothes  and  boots,  and 
clean  up  generally  as  well  as  we  could.  We  had 
given  the  cook  another  twenty  francs  and  he 
heated  some  water  for  us. 

At  noon  the  next  day  the  Colonel  told  us  that 
arrangements  had  been  made  for  us  to  return  to 
Paris  at  three  o'clock  and  in  our  own  automo- 
bile; inasmuch  as  his  soldiers  did  not  like  it,  it 
was  to  be  turned  over  to  the  authorities  in  Paris. 
He  asked  us  what  had  become  of  our  French 
chauffeur.  We  insisted  that  no  one  could  know 
less  about  this  than  we;  and  a  detail  of  soldiers 
was  sent  out  to  rake  the  town  for  him.  After 
the  midday  meal  we  noticed  that  the  guard  at  the 
gate  had  been  withdrawn,  so  we  suggested  that 
perhaps  we  could  pass  our  ^^dead  line"  and  look 
out  at  the  world.  As  we  reached  the  gate  four 
men  in  civilian  dress  accompanied  by  a  soldier 
entered.  The  soldiers  in  the  cow  yard  and  our- 
selves burst  into  a  mighty  laugh.    **More  Ameri- 


io8  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

can  correspondents/'  was  the  shout  that  greeted 
the  newcomers. 

Two  of  them  were  special  correspondents  for 
American  and  English  papers,  one  was  a  * 'famous 
war  correspondent/'  the  fourth  was  an  amateur 
journalist  whose  claim  to  war  corresponding 
lay  in  his  former  experience  as  an  officer  in  the 
New  York  militia.  Also  he  was  the  relative  of 
a  wealthy  politician. 

No  credentials  were  found  on  the  person  of  any 
one  of  the  quartet ;  but  they  were  making  a  great 
fuss  about  the  'injustice"  that  was  being  done 
them.  Our  Colonel,  to  whom  they  addressed  their 
remarks,  became  bored.  He  left  them  still  talk- 
ing and  came  over  to  us. 

''They  go  to  Paris  at  the  same  time  as  you," 
he  announced.  "They  are  fortunate.  I  should 
have  liked  to  entertain  them  for  a  few  days.'' 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  grinned  sardoni- 
cally. 

He  then  asked  us  for  our  cards.  He  shook  our 
hands.  The  monocle  dropped  from  his  eye  and  he 
let  it  dangle  on  the  silken  cord. 

"I  shall  call  on  you  in  Paris  when  the  war  is 
over,"  he  said,  ''er-er,  that  is — if  I  am  still  here." 
He  hastily  jammed  the  monocle  back  into  its 
proper  position. 


"DETAINED"  BY  THE  COLONEL      109 

The  automobiles  for  the  party  were  now  in  the 
yard,  and  a  captain  who  was  to  conduct  them  told 
us  to  take  our  places.  As  we  drove  out  our  Colo- 
nel was  standing  beside  the  gate.  He  was  twirl- 
ing his  mustache.  As  we  passed,  his  free  hand 
came  to  a  friendly  salute. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   CHERCHE    MIDI 

In  the  automobile  which  brought  us  back  to 
Paris,  we  were  guarded  by  a  phenomenon  of 
nature — a  taciturn  French  soldier.  His  rifle  dan- 
gled handily  across  his  knee ;  he  gazed  at  the  pass- 
ing scenery  and  was  dumb  to  all  questions.  He 
was  even  downright  mean;  for  when  a  tire  blew 
up,  causing  half  an  hour's  delay,  he  would  not 
allow  us  to  stretch  our  cramped  legs  in  the  road. 

He  would  not  even  let  us  talk  English  among 
ourselves.  Once  when  some  one  was  relating  a 
tale  of  German  atrocity  he  had  heard,  our  guard 
scowled  blackly  at  us,  lifting  his  rifle  from  his 
knee;  and  I  whispered  hastily:  ** Quiet,  or  we  may 
become  atrocities  ourselves !*' 

We  halted  before  the  headquarters  of  the  Mili- 
tary Governor  in  the  Boulevard  des  Invalides; 
before  the  war  it  had  been  a  school  for  girls. 
Although  it  was  late  in  the  evening  when  we 
arrived  the  sidewalk  was  crowded,  as  usual,  with 
civilians.  The  chauffeur  waited  while  the  gates 
into    the    courtyard    were    opened.     The    crowd 

no 


THE  CHERCHE  MIDI  iii 

caught  sight  of  the  armed  escort  and  as  we  moved 
forward  we  caught  murmurs  of  ^^  prisoners  of 
war''  and  ** spies. '^ 

We  smiled  at  that — for  in  a  few  moments, 
thought  we,  this  foolishness  would  all  be  over, 
we  would  be  free  again.  Our  ^* detention''  by  the 
jolly  Colonel  was  already  a  memory,  listed  in 
among  our  ^interesting  experiences."  Speaking 
in  French  to  pacify  our  guard,  we  blithely  planned 
a  belated  dinner  at  a  boulevard  restaurant.  We 
were  ravenous;  we  decided  upon  its  menu  from 
hors-d'oeuvres  to  cheese  and  were  settling  the 
question  of  wine  when  some  one  said : 

*^We  seem  to  be  waiting  here  a  long  time.  Do 
you  suppose  they'd  keep  us  prisoners  until  morn- 
ing!" 

Our  soldier,  who  by  this  time  had  evidently 
become  a  little  tired  of  his  silence,  told  us  curtly 
that  the  Captain  in  charge  of  the  party,  who  had 
preceded  us  in  another  car,  was  conferring  as  to 
our  fate  with  officials  inside.  We  were  so  sur- 
prised at  this  gratuitous  information  that  we 
offered  one  of  our  few  remaining  cigarettes,  which 
was  promptly  accepted. 

The  Captain  finally  ran  down  the  steps  of  the 
building.  The  other  prisoners,  who  rode  in  the 
car  with  him,  had  been  given  some  liberty,  and 


112  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

were  walking  about  the  courtyard.  He  called  to 
them  and  said  something  which  seemed  to  throw 
them  into  fits  of  rage  and  dismay. 

Then  lie  came  to  our  car,  and  we  knew  at  once 
that  our  dinner,  like  the  Kaiser's,  was  indefinitely 
postponed.  The  Captain  did  not  speak  to  us  at 
all.  He  merely  ordered  the  chauffeur  to  follow 
the  car  ahead,  then  retraced  his  steps.  All  the 
other  prisoners  but  one  had  reseated  themselves. 

This  one,  the  amateur  journalist  who  had  at 
one  time  been  an  officer  in  the  American  militia 
and  was  also  the  relative  of  a  rich  man,  was 
standing  beside  the  car.  The  Captain  curtly 
motioned  him  to  enter;  he  shook  his  head  vigor- 
ously. We  could  not  hear  all  of  the  conversation 
that  followed,  but  it  was  brief.  Finally  the  Cap- 
tain raised  his  voice:  ^^So  you  will  not  get  into 
the  automobile  r'  '^No,"  replied  the  American. 
*  *  I  am  an  ex-army  officer  and  decline  to  be  treated 
in  such  fashion.''  He  also  mentioned  his  influen- 
tial relative. 

I  admit  that  at  the  moment  my  sympathies 
were  somewhat  with  my  fellow  countryman;  but 
even  then  I  could  not  help  feeling  how  utterly 
futile  was  his  objection,  on  whatever  ground  it 
was  based.  Throughout  our  entire  period  of 
arrest,  we — the  two  friends  with  whom  I  had  left 


THE  CHERCHE  MIDI  113 

Paris  and  myself — had  followed  but  one  rule. 
Inasmuch  as  we  had  suddenly  found  ourselves  in 
a  situation  where  the  chief  argument  was  a  rifle 
and  cartridge,  we  always  did  exactly  as  we  were 
ordered.  To  rebel  against  soldiers  and  officers 
who  were  only  following  the  orders  of  their  su- 
periors seemed  mere  folly.  The  fate  of  the  ex- 
militia  man  who  declined  to  enter  the  automobile 
proved  this  point. 

The  Captain  apparently  had  never  heard  of  his 
wealthy  relative,  for  he  silently  signaled  to  a 
soldier  standing  on  the  steps.  The  soldier  placed 
the  point  of  his  bayonet  gently  against  the  stom- 
ach of  the  prisoner,  who  forthwith  backed  up  the 
steps  of  the  car  and  fell  across  the  knees  of  his 
companions,  who  had  been  cursing  him  audibly 
for  *  Splaying  the  fool.''  The  Captain  seated  him- 
self beside  his  chauffeur  and  both  cars  started  out 
into  the  night. 

We  traversed  many  streets,  but  I  kept  peering 
out  of  my  window  and  knew  our  general  direc- 
tion. In  a  few  minutes  we  drew  up  in  a  side  street 
leading  from  the  Boulevard  Easpail,  before  a 
grimy  old  building.  A  soldier  with  a  rifle  at 
salute  stood  beside  its  heavy  doors.  I  knew  that 
building.  I  had  passed  it  every  day  during  many 
months,  for  it  was  just  a  few  blocks  from  my 


114  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

house  and  on  the  direct  route  to  my  orfice.  I  had 
glanced  at  it  curiously  as  I  passed.  I  had  read 
its  history.  I  wondered  if  it  were  as  bad  on  the 
inside  as  some  of  the  history  depicted. 

The  doors  opened,  and  I  confess  I  shuddered 
as  we  slipped  softly  into  the  thick  blackness  of 
the  courtyard.  There  was  not  a  sound  for  a 
moment,  after  the  chauffeurs  cut  off  the  engines. 
Then  a  door  to  the  right  opened,  throwing  out  a 
shaft  of  light.  The  Captain  descended  from  the 
car  ahead.  At  the  same  moment  the  doors  closed 
with  a  depressing  crash  of  iron.  In  that  moment 
my  sensations  were  of  an  entirely  original  char- 
acter. 

We  all  got  out  of  the  cars,  the  prisoners  ahead 
joining  us,  and  stood  together  in  an  angry  group. 

*' Where  are  wef  asked  some  one. 

*^ Don't  you  know?"  the  ex-militia  man  snarled. 
*^TheyVe  landed  us  at  Saint  Lazare!'' 

**  Saint  Lazare!"  cried  several  in  unison. 

One  of  my  friends  snorted.  ** Don't  be  silly. 
St.  Lazare  is  the  prison  for  women,  not  war  cor- 
respondents." 

I  roused  from  my  gloomy  meditations  to  break 
into  the  conversation. 

*^I'll  tell  you  where  we  are  if  you  really  care 
to  know,"  I  said.    '^We're  in  the  Cherche  Midi — 


THE  CHERCHE  MIDI  115 

the  foremost  military  prison  of  France.  This  is 
the  place  where  Dreyfus  awaited  his  trial.  This 
is  the  place  of  the  historic  rats,  etc. ' ' 

I  ceased  abruptly.  Here  I  was,  a  bare  ten  min- 
utes'  walk  from  my  home — and  I  might  as  well 
have  been  a  thousand  miles.  The  clang  of  those 
doors  had  shut  off  all  the  world.  How  long  did 
they  expect  to  keep  us  there  I  Anight?  A  week? 
A  month!  Perhaps  until  the  war  was  over? 
What  could  we  do  about  it?  Nothing.  Those 
doors  shut  off  all  hope.  We  could  get  no  word  to 
any  one  if  our  captors  did  not  desire  it.  We 
would  remain  there  exactly  as  long  as  they  wished. 
No  matter  what  we  thought  about  it — ^no  matter 
how  innocent  we  were  of  military  misdemeanor. 
We  were  prisoners  of  war  in  the  Cherche  Midi — 
and  I  understood  the  Dreyfus  case  better. 

Just  before  we  filed  into  the  examination  room 
whence  came  the  shaft  of  light,  the  sage  of  our 
party,  who  had  suggested  back  in  the  courtyard 
that  we  be  good  prisoners  until  the  right  moment 
arrived,  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder  and  spoke  in 
mj  ear : 

'^Now's  the  time,''  he  said.  ^'We  must  kick 
now  or  never.  I  will  begin  the  rumpus  and  you 
follow — and  kick  hard. ' ' 

They  lined  us  up  in  the  tiny  office  where  a 


ii6  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

lieutenaut  duly  inscribed  our  uames  and  nefari- 
ous profession  in  the  great  register.  He  slammed 
the  book  shut,  and  began  directions  to  an  orderly 
about  conducting  us  to  our  cells — when  the  sage 
spoke. 

*  *  What  about  dinner  T '  he  began. 

**Too  late/'  said  the  officer.     *^It's  midnight.'' 

*'Not  too  late  to  be  hungry,"  was  the  reply. 
**We  have  had  nothing  to  eat  since  noon.  Do 
you  want  it  printed  that  prisoners  are  starved  in 
the  Cherche  Midi?" 

The  officer  reflected.  He  then  consulted  with 
several  orderlies  and  finally  stated  that  there  was 
no  available  food  in  the  prison,  but  that  he  would 
permit  us,  at  our  expense,  to  have  dinner  served 
from  a  hotel  nearby.  We  agreed  to  this  and  the 
orderlies  departed. 

This  arranged  two  things  which  we  desired: 
food — for  we  were  really  famished — and  time  to 
plan  our  campaign  for  liberty  before  being  sepa- 
rated into  cells.  While  the  orderlies  were  gone 
we  made  an  argumentative  onslaught  on  the  Lieu- 
tenant in  his  little  cubby-hole  office,  separated  by 
a  low  partition  from  the  big  gloomy  hall  where  we 
were  told  to  await  our  dinner. 

We  told  him  in  detail  who  we  were,  how  we  hap- 
pened to  be  there,  all  the  time  insisting  on  the 


THE  CHERCHE  MIDI  117 

injustice  of  our  treatment.  He  replied  that 
although  he  could  not  discuss  the  merits  of  our 
case,  it  might  interest  us  to  know  that  his  orders 
were  to  keep  us  for  eight  days  in  solitary  confine- 
ment, not  allowing  us  to  even  talk  with  each  other, 
after  that  dinner  which  the  orderlies  were  now 
spreading  on  a  big  table. 

Eight  days ! — and  we  had  already  been  there  a 
year — or  so  it  seemed.  Eight  days !  Why  it  was 
an  eternity.  And  we  would  not  stand  it.  The 
fight  in  all  of  us  was  finally  aroused.  They  could 
drag  us  to  cells  and  keep  us;  yes,  but  dragging 
would  be  necessary.     We  assured  him  of  that. 

And  then  the  eagle  began  to  scream.  I  have 
often  wished  when  traveling  in  Europe  that  so 
many  American  tourists  would  not  so  constantly 
keep  America  and  Americanism  in  the  foreground 
of  everything  they  thought  and  said  and  did — 
but  on  that  night  in  the  Cherche  Midi  I  was  as 
blatant  and  noisy  and  proud  an  American  as  ever 
there  was.  We  waved  the  Stars  and  Stripes  and 
shouted  the  Declaration  of  Independence  at  the 
now  bewildered  officer  until  he  begged  us  to  desist. 
Earlier  in  our  conversation  we  had  discussed  the 
mighty  effects  of  journalism  and  how  it  visited 
its  pleasures  and  its  displeasures.  Now  we  quoted 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States  and  pro- 


ii8  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

duced  our  passports.     We  demanded  an  immedi- 
ate audience  with  the  American  Ambassador. 

Our  dinner  was  waiting,  and  the  officer  declared 
finally  that  if  we  would  only  eat  it  he  would  see 
wliat  he  could  do  for  us,  to  the  extent  of  telephon- 
ing to  the  Military  Governor.  We  could  hear  his 
part  of  the  telephone  conversation  as  we  attacked 
our  food.  We  never  learned  with  whom  he  was 
talking,  but  he  made  it  strong.  He  never  had 
such  persons  as  ourselves  inside  his  prison  and 
he  would  be  devoutly  thankful  to  be  rid  of  us.  And 
besides — this  was  whispered  but  we  caught  the 
drift  of  it — they  were  Americans,  these  prisoners, 
and  perhaps  it  might  be  just  as  well  to  send  some 
word  about  them  to  the  American  Embassy. 

There  was  more  that  we  could  not  hear,  but 
finally  he  informed  us  that  an  officer  was  coming 
from  headquarters  to  talk  with  us ;  that  we  were  to 
wait  where  we  were. 

I  do  not  know  what  influence,  aside  from  the 
telephone  conversation,  intervened  in  our  behalf 
that  night.  But  I  am  sure  that  conversation  had 
little  ta  do  with  it  beyond  perhaps  securing  an 
immediate  rather  than  deferred  action.  Per- 
haps it  was  an  accident,  perhaps  a  change  of  opin- 
ion at  the  Military  Governor's  headquarters  as  to 
the  sentence  that  had  been  passed  upon  us.    At 


THE  CHERCHE  MIDI  iig 

any  rate,  at  the  moment  we  were  paying  for  our 
dinner  and  demanding  a  receipt  dated  from  inside 
the  prison  walls  (everj^  one  of  us  kept  an  eye  open 
to  newspaper  copy  in  demanding  the  receipt  in 
such  fashion)  the  door  was  flung  open  and  a  high 
Government  official  whom  most  of  us  knew  person- 
ally, entered  the  room. 

His  first  act  was  to  fling  the  money  from  the 
hands  of  the  hotel  servant  back  upon  the  table — 
snatch  the  receipts,  and  tear  them  in  pieces. 

** Gentlemen,  the  dinners  are  on  me,''  was  his 
greeting. 

A  few  hours  later  the  military  attache  of  the 
American  Embassy  who  had  been  roused  from  his 
bed,  explained  that  Mr.  Herrick  would  undertake 
the  personal  responsibility  for  our  parole.  The 
gates  of  the  Cherche  Midi  opened.  The  heavy  arm 
of  military  authority  had  lightened;  but  the  free 
road  to  the  battle  front  was  still  closed. 


CHAPTER  XI 

UNDER  THE   CEOIX   ROUGE 

I  NEVER  expected  to  drive  a  motor  ambulance, 
with  badly  wounded  men,  down  the  Champs  Ely- 
sees.  But  I  did.  I  have  done  many  things  since 
the  war  began  that  I  never  expected  to  do; — but 
somehow  that  magnificent  Champs  Elysees — and 
ambulances — and  groans  of  wounded  seemed  a 
combination  entirely  outside  my  wildest  imagina- 
tions. 

This  was  a  result  of  the  eight  days '  parole,  after 
my  release  from  the  Cherche  Midi;  I  was  forbid- 
den to  write  anything  concerning  my  trip  to  the 
battle  fields. 

During  those  eight  days  I  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  popularity  of  journalism  in  France 
had  reached  its  lowest  ebb.  In  the  antebellum 
days  newspapermen  were  rather  highly  regarded 
in  the  French  capital.  They  occasionally  got 
almost  in  the  savant  class,  and  folks  seemed 
rather  glad  to  sit  near  their  corners  of  the  cafes 
and  hearken  to  their  words.    I  found  that  now, 

120 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         121 

in  popular  estimation,  they  were  several  degrees 
below  the  ordinary  criminal,  and  in  fact  not  far 
above  the  level  of  the  spy.  Also  the  wording  of 
my  parole  was  galling.  I  conld  not  even  write 
private  letters  to  my  family,  without  first  obtain- 
ing permission  at  headquarters  of  the  Military 
Governor. 

We  had  ''run  into  an  important  turning  move- 
ment of  troops  on  that  trip  to  the  fronf  was  the 
final  ofificial  reason  assigned  for  our  particular 
predicament.  We  were  dangerous ;  we  might  tell 
about  that  turning  movement.  Therefore  the 
eight  days '  parole. 

Nevertheless,  for  eight  days  my  activities  for 
my  newspaper  were  suspended,  and  even  then  the 
hope  of  getting  to  the  front  seemed  more  vague 
than  ever.  I  thought  over  every  plan  that  might 
produce  copy,  and  finally  I  called  on  the  Ambas- 
sador— which  was  the  usual  procedure  when  one 
had  an  idea  of  front-going  character. 

**I  am  weary  of  the  reputation  that  has  been 
bestowed  upon  me,'^  I  told  Mr.  Herrick.  *'I  am 
tired  of  being  classified  with  the  thugs  and  yegg- 
men.  I  am  tired  of  being  an  outcast  on  the  face 
of  Paris.  In  other  words,  for  the  moment  I  desire 
to  uplift  myself  from  the  low  level  of  journalism. 
I  desire  to  don  the  brassard  of  the  Eed  Cross.'' 


122  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

**Yes/'  said  the  Ambassador,  "I  don't  blame 
you. ' ' 

**A11  right/'  I  rejoined,  ''but  as  a  journalist 
they  won't  have  me — unless  you  give  me  a  bill  of 
health.  If  you  tell  them  I  am  not  so  bad  as  I  look 
nor  so  black  as  I  am  painted,  I  stand  a  chance. 
I  confess  frankly  that  I  am  actuated  by  the  low 
motives  of  my  profession.  I  am  first  and  last  a 
newspaperman  and  I  believe  that  a  Ked  Cross 
ambulance  may  get  me  to  the  battle  front.  How- 
ever, I  am  willing  to  do  my  share  of  the  work, 
and  if  I  go  into  the  service  with  my  cards  face 
up  and  your  guarantee — why — " 

**Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Herrick.  ''And  tbat  goes, 
provided  you  will  not  use  the  cable  until  you  leave 
the  service." 

I  promised.  The  Ambassador  kept  his  word. 
A  week  later,  vaccinated  and  injected  against  dis- 
ease of  every  character,  clad  in  khaki,  with  the 
coveted  badge  of  mercy  sewed  on  the  left  sleeve, 
I  was  taken  into  the  ranks  of  the  Croix  Rouge  as 
an  ambulance  orderly.  I  remained  for  two 
months — first  hauling  wounded  from  great  evac- 
uation stations  about  Paris  to  hospitals  within 
the  walls.  Most  of  our  wounded  went  to  the 
American  Ambulance,  when  we  broke  all  speed 
laws  going  through  the  Champs  Elysees,  en  route 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         123 

to  Neuilly.  Later  I  was  stationed  at  Amiens  with 
the  second  French  army,  at  that  time  under  the 
command  of  General  Castelnau.  We  slept  on  the 
floor  in  a  freight  station  and  we  worked  in  the 
black  ooze  of  the  railway  yards.  The  battle  front 
was  still  many  miles  away. 

One  morning  when  the  weather  was  bleakest  (it 
was  now  December)  and  the  black  ooze  the  deep- 
est, and  the  straw  from  where  I  had  just  risen  was 
flattest  and  moldiest,  I  received  word  from  Paris 
to  get  back  quick — that  at  last  the  War  Office  would 
send  correspondents  to  the  front,  and  that  the 
Foreign  Office  was  preparing  the  list  of  neutrals 
who  would  go. 

I  resigned  my  ambulance  job  and  took  the  next 
train.  But  I  kept  my  brassard  with  the  red  cross 
upon  it.  I  wanted  it  as  a  proof  of  those  hard 
days  and  sometimes  harder  nights,  when  my  pro- 
fession was  blotted  from  my  mind — and  copy 
didn't  matter — ^I  wanted  it  because  it  was  my 
badge  when  I  was  an  ambulance  orderly  carry- 
ing wounded  men,  when  I  came  to  feel  that  I  was 
contributing  something  after  all,  although  a  neu- 
tral, toward  the  great  sacrifice  of  the  country  that 
sheltered  me.  I  shall  keep  it  always  for  many 
things  that  I  saw  and  heard ;  but  I  cherish  it  most 
for  my  recollection  of  Trevelyan — the  Rue  Jeanne 


124  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

d^Arc  and  those  from  a  locality  called  Quesnoy- 
sur-Somme. 

(A)  Trevelyan 

The  orderly  on  the  first  bus  was  sitting  at  atten- 
tion, with  arms  folded,  waiting  for  orders.  It  was 
just  dawn,  but  the  interior  of  his  bus  was  clean 
and  ready.  He  always  fixed  it  up  at  night,  when 
the  rest  of  us,  dog  tired,  crept  into  the  dank  straw, 
saying  we  could  get  up  extra  early  and  do  it. 

So  now  we  were  up  ** extra  early,'*  chauffeurs 
tinkered  with  engines,  and  orderlies  fumigated 
interiors;  and  the  First  Orderly,  sitting  at  the 
head  of  the  column,  where  he  heard  things,  and 
saw  things,  got  acquainted  with  Trevelyan. 

The  seven  American  motor  ambulances  were 
drawn  up  with  a  detachment  of  the  British  Red 

Cross  in  a  small  village  near  B ,  the  railhead 

where  the  base  hospital  was  located,  way  up  near 
the  Belgian  frontier.  The  weather  was  cold.  We 
had  changed  the  brown  paint  on  our  busses  to 
gray,  making  them  less  visible  against  the  snow. 
Even  the  hoods  and  wheels  were  gray.  All  that 
could  be  seen  at  a  distance  were  the  two  big  red 
crosses  blinking  like  a  pair  of  eyes  on  the  back 
canvas  flaps.  The  American  cars  were  light  and 
fast  and  could  scurry  back  out  of  shell  range 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         125 

quicker  than  big  lumbering  ambulances — of  wbicb 
there  was  a  plenty.  Therefore  we  were  in 
demand.  The  morning  that  the  First  Orderly  met 
Trevelyan  our  squad  commander  was  in  confer- 
ence with  the  fat  major  of  the  Eoyal  Army  Medi- 
cal Corps  concerning  the  strenuous  business  of  the 
day. 

Both  the  First  Orderly  and  Trevelyan  were 
Somebodys.  It  was  apparent.  It  was  their  caste 
that  attracted  them  to  each  other.  The  First 
Orderly  was  a  prominent  figure  in  the  Paris  Ameri- 
can colony ;  he  knew  the  best  people  on  both  sides 
of  the  Atlantic.  Now  he  was  an  orderly  on  an 
ambulance  because  he  wanted  to  see  some  of  the 
war.  He  wanted  to  do  something  in  the  war. 
There  were  many  like  him — neutrals  in  the  ranks 
of  the  Croix  Eouge. 

The  detachment  of  the  Royal  Army  Medical 
Corps  to  which  Trevelyan  belonged  arrived  late 
one  night  and  were  billeted  in  a  barn.  The  Ameri- 
can corps  were  in  the  school  house,  sleeping  in 
straw  on  the  wood  floor.  A  small  evacuation  hos- 
pital was  near  where  the  wounded  from  the  field 
hospitals  were  patched  up  a  little  before  we  took 
them  for  a  long  ambulance  haul. 

Trevelyan  was  only  an  orderly.  The  American 
corps  found  this  ** quaint,''  as  Trevelyan  himself 


126  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

would  have  said.  For  the  orderly  of  the  medical 
corps  corresponds  to  the  ^'ranker''  of  the  army. 
In  this  war,  at  a  time  when  officers  were  the 
crying  demand,  the  gentlemen  rankers  had  almost 
disappeared.  Among  the  American  volunteers, 
being  the  squad  commander  was  somewhat  a  mat- 
ter of  choice  and  of  mechanical  knowledge  of  our 
cars.  We  all  stood  on  an  equal  footing.  But 
Trevelyan  was  simply  classed  as  a  '^ Tommy,*'  so 
far  as  his  medical  officers  were  concerned. 

So  he  showed  a  disposition  to  chum  with  us. 
He  gravitated  more  particularly  to  the  First 
Orderly,  who  reported  to  the  chauffeur  of  the 
second  bus  that  Trevelyian  had  a  most  compre- 
hensive understanding  of  the  war;  that  he  had 
also  a  keen  knowledge  of  medicine  and  surgery, 
with  which  the  First  Orderly  had  himself  tinkered. 

They  discussed  the  value  of  the  war  in  several 
branches  of  surgery.  The  chauffeur  of  the  second 
bus  heard  Trevelyan  expounding  to  the  First 
Orderly  on  the  precious  knowledge  derived  by  the 
great  hospital  surgeons  in  Paris  and  London  from 
the  great  numbers  of  thigh  fractures  coming  in — 
how  amputations  were  becoming  always  fewer — 
the  men  walked  again,  though  one  leg  might  be 
shorter. 

Trevelyan,  in  his  well  fitting  khaki  uniform. 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         127 

seemed  from  the  same  mold  as  hundreds  of  clean 
built  Englishmen;  lean  face,  blond  hair.  His 
accent  was  faultlessly  upper  class.  The  letter 
^^g'^  did  not  occur  as  a  terminating  consonant  in 
his  conversation.  The  adjectives  '^rippin'  ''  or 
^^  rotten' '  conveyed  his  sentiments  one  way  or  the 
other.  His  hand  clasp  was  fiiTQ,  his  eye  direct 
and  blue.    He  was  a  chap  you  liked. 

At  our  midday  meal,  which  was  served  apart 
for  the  American  contingent,  the  First  Orderly 
asked  the  corps  what  they  thought  of  Trevelyan. 
**IVe  lived  three  years  in  England, '^  said  the 
chauffeur  of  the  second  bus,  ^^and  this  fellow 
seems  to  have  far  less  ^side'  than  most  of  his 
class." 

The  First  Orderly  explained  that  this  was 
because  Trevelyan  had  become  cosmopolitan — 
traveled  a  lot,  spoke  French  and  Spanish  and 
understood  Italian,  whereas  most  Englishmen 
scorned  to  learn  any  ^ ^foreign"  tongue. 

^'Why  isn't  he  in  a  regiment — he's  so  supe- 
rior!" wondered  the  chauffeur  of  the  second  bus. 
The  First  Orderly  maintained  stoutly  that  there 
was  some  good  reason,  perhaps  family  trouble, 
why  his  new  friend  was  just  a  common  orderly — 
like  himself. 

The  entire  column  was  then  ordered  out.     They 


128  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

hauled  wounded  from  the  field  hospitals  to  the 
evacuation  camp  until  nightfall.  After  dusk  they 
made  several  trips  almost  to  the  trenches.  But 
there  were  fewer  wounded  than  usual.  The  cold 
had  lessened  the  infantry  attacks,  though  the 
artillery  constantly  thundered,  especially  at  night- 
fall. 

New  orders  came  in.  They  were : — Everything 
ready  always  for  a  possible  quick  advance  into 

L ,   which   was   then   an   advance   post.     An 

important  redistribution  of  General  Frenches 
* ^ contemptible  little  army''  was  hoped  for.  At 
coffee  next  morning  our  squad  commander,  after 
his  customary  talk  with  the  fat  major,  admon- 
ished us  to  have  little  to  say  concerning  our  affairs 
— that  talk  was  a  useless  adjunct  to  war. 

That  day  again  the  First  Orderly's  dinner  con- 
versation was  of  Trevelyan.  Their  conversation 
of  that  morning  had  gotten  away  from  armies  and 
surgeons  and  embraced  art  people,  which  were  the 
First  Orderly's  forte.  People  were  his  hobby  but 
he  knew  a  lot  about  art.  This  knowledge  had 
developed  in  the  form  of  landscape  gardening  at 
the  country  places  of  his  millionaire  friends.  It 
appeared  that  he  and  Trevelyan  had  known  the 
same  families  in  different  parts  of  the  world. 

**He  knows  the  G's,"  he  proclaimed,  naming  a 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         129 

prominent  New  York  family.  "  He 's  been  to  their 
villa  at  Lennox.  He  spoke  of  the  way  the  grounds 
are  laid  out,  before  he  knew  I  had  been  there. 
Talked  about  the  box  perspective  for  the  Venus 
fountain,  that  I  suggested  myself." 

The  corps  ** joshed''  the  First  Orderly  on  that: 
asked  him  whether  Trevelyan  had  yet  confided 
the  reason  for  his  position  in  the  ranks.  The 
First  Orderly  was  indifferent.  He  waved  a  knife 
loaded  with  potatoes — a  knife  is  the  chief  army 
eating  utensil.  *'He  may  be  anything  from  an 
Honorable  to  a  Duke,"  he  said,  '*but  I  don't  like 
to  ask,  for  you  know  how  Englishmen  are  about 
those  things.  I  have  found,  though,  that  he  did 
the  Vatican  and  Medici  collections  only  a  year  ago 
with  some  friends  of  mine,  and  I'm  going  to  sound 
them  about  him  sometime." 

There  were  sharp  engagements  that  afternoon 
and  the  corps  was  kept  busy.  At  nightfall,  the 
booming  of  the  artillery  was  louder — ^nearer,  espe- 
cially on  the  left,  where  the  French  heavy  artillery 
had  come  up  the  day  before  to  support  the  Brit- 
ish line.  The  ambulance  corps  was  ordered  to 
prepare  for  night  work.  They  snatched  plates  of 
soup  and  beans,  and  sat  on  the  busses,  waiting. 

At  eight  o'clock  a  shell  screamed  over  the  line 
of  cars,  then  another,  and  two  more.    '^They've 


130  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

got  the  range  on  us,"  the  fat  Major  said.  We 41 
have  to  clear  out.''  Eighteen  shells  passed  over- 
head before  the  equipment  and  the  few  remaining 
wounded  got  away  and  struck  the  road  to  the  main 
base  at  B . 

The  American  squad  was  billeted  that  night  in 
the  freight  station — dropping  asleep  as  they  sank 
into  the  straw  on  the  floor.  At  midnight  an  Eng- 
lish colonel's  orderly  entered  and  called  the  squad 
commander.  They  went  out  together;  then  the 
squad  commander  returned  for  the  Orderly  of  the 
first  bus.  The  chauffeur  of  the  second  bus  waked 
when  they  returned  after  several  hours,  and  heard 
them  through  the  gloom  groping  their  way  to  nests 
in  the  straw.     They  said  nothing. 

It  was  explained  in  the  morning  at  coffee. 
**Trevelyan''  had  been  shot  at  sunrise.  He  was 
a  German  spy. 

(B)  The  Eue  Jeanne  d'Arc 

We  were  sitting  in  a  cafe  at  the  aperitif  hour 
— an  hour  that  survives  the  war.  We  were  sta- 
tioned in  a  city  of  good  size  in  Northern  France, 
a  city  famous  for  its  cathedral  and  its  cheese. 
Just  now  it  was  a  haven  for  refugees,  and  an 
evacuation  center  for  wounded.  The  Germans 
had  been  there,  as  the  patronne  of  the  cafe  Lion 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         131 

d'Or  narrated  at  length  to  every  one  who  would 
listen;  but  now  the  battle  lines  were  some  dis- 
tance away.  If  the  wind  came  from  the  right  di- 
rection when  the  noise  of  the  city  was  hushed  by 
military  order  at  nightfall,  the  haunting  boom- 
boo-o-m  of  heavy  artillery  could  be  faintly  heard. 
No  one  who  has  heard  that  sound  ever  forgets  it. 
Dynamite  blasting  sounds  just  about  the  same, 
but  in  the  sound  of  artillery,  when  one  knows  that 
it  is  artillery,  there  seems  the  knell  of  doom. 

The  cafe  was  crowded  at  the  aperitif  hour. 
The  fat  face  of  the  patronne  was  wreathed  in 
smiles.  Any  one  is  mistaken  who  imagines  that 
all  Northern  France  is  lost  from  human  view  in 
a  dense  rolling  cloud  of  battle  smoke.  At  any 
rate,  in  the  Cafe  d^Or  one  looked  upon  life  un- 
changed. True,  there  were  some  new  clients  in 
the  place  of  old  ones.  There  were  a  half  dozen 
soldiers  in  khaki,  and  we  of  the  American  ambu- 
lance column,  dressed  in  the  same  cloth.  In  a 
corner  sat  a  young  lieutenant  in  the  gorgeous 
blue  of  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  drinking  ver- 
mouth with  a  grizzled  captain  of  artillery.  Other 
French  uniforms  dotted  the  place.  The  ^^  honest 
bourgeois''  were  all  there — the  chief  supports  of 
the  establishment  in  peace  or  war.  They  missed 
the  evening  aperitif  during  the  twelve  days  of 


132  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

German  occupation,  but  now  all  were  in  their  ac- 
customed places.  For  the  places  of  oldtimers  are 
sacred  at  the  Lion  d'Or. 

Madame  la  patronne  acted  in  place  of  her  hus- 
band, who  was  now  safely  serving  in  the  cooking 
department  of  the  army,  some  kilometers  from 
the  firing  line.  Madame  sat  contentedly  at  the 
caisse  superintending  the  activities  of  two  youth- 
ful, inexperienced  gargons.  The  old  waiters, 
Jean  and  Andre,  vanished  into  the  *^zone  of  mili- 
tary activity"  on  the  first  day  of  the  war.  After 
several  post  cards,  Jean  had  not  been  heard  from. 
Andre  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  the  Mame. 

We  had  heard  the  garrulous  tale  of  the  German 
occupation  many  times.  It  was  thrillingly  re- 
vealed, both  at  the  Restaurant  de  Commerce  and 
the  Hotel  de  Soleil.  At  the  Lion  d'Or  it  was 
Madame 's  absorbing  theme,  when  she  was  not 
haranguing  the  new  waiters  or  counting  change. 
Madame  had  remained  throughout  the  trouble. 
^^But  yes,  to  be  sure."  She  was  not  the  woman 
to  flee  and  leave  the  Lion  d'Or  to  the  invaders. 
Her  ample  form  was  firmly  ensconced  behind  the 
caisse  when  the  first  of  the  Uhlans  entered.  They 
were  officers,  and — ^wonder  of  wonders — they 
spoke  French.  The  new  waiters  were  hiding  in 
the  cellar,  so  Madame  clambered  from  her  chair 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         133 

with  dignity,  and  placed  glasses  and  drink  before 
them.  And  then — would  w^onders  never  cease! — 
these  Germans  had  actually  paid — even  overpaid, 
ma  foi — for  one  of  them  flung  a  golden  half  louis 
on  the  counter,  and  stalked  from  the  place  refus- 
ing change.  Of  course  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  the 
invaders  behaved  differently.  There  the  Mayor 
was  called  upon  for  one  million  francs — war 
indemnity.  But  that  was  a  matter  for  the  city 
and  not  for  the  individual.  Madame  still  had 
that  golden  half  louis  and  would  show  it  if  we 
cared  to  see.  Gold  was  scarce  and  exceedingly 
precious.     The  sight  of  it  was  good. 

Now  the  Germans  were  gone — forced  out,  grace 
a  Dieu,  so  the  good  citizens  no  longer  lived  in  the 
cellars.  They  were  again  in  their  places  at  the 
Lion  d'Or,  sipping  vermouth  and  offering  grati- 
tude to  the  military  regime  that  had  the  decency 
to  allow  cafes  open  until  eight  o'clock.  Outside 
the  night  was  cold  and  a  fine  drizzle  beat  against 
the  windows.  Several  newcomers  shivered  and 
remarked  that  it  must  be  terrible  in  the  trenches. 
But  the  electric  lights,  the  clinking  glasses  on  the 
marble  tables,  the  rattling  coins,  soon  brought 
them  into  the  general  line  of  speculation  on  how 
long  it  would  take  to  drive  the  Germans  from 
France. 


134  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

For  a  hundred  years  the  cafes  have  been  the 
Forum  of  France.  The  Lion  d'Or  had  for  that 
entire  period  been  the  scene  of  fierce  verbal 
encounters  between  members  of  more  political 
and  religious  faiths  than  exist  in  any  other  nation 
of  the  world.  Every  Frenchman,  no  matter  how 
humble  in  position  or  purse  has  decided  opinions 
about  something.  But  now  the  voices  in  the  Lion 
d'Or  arose  only  in  appellations  concerning  les 
Bodies.  There  was  unanimity  of  opinion  on  the 
absorbing  subject  of  the  war. 

The    members    of    the    American    ambulance 
column  sat  at  a  table  near  the  door.    Our  khaki 
always     brought     looks     of     friendly     interest. 
Almost  every  one  took  us  to  be  English,  and  even 
those  who  learned  the  truth  were  equally  pleased. 
We  finished  the  aperitif  and  consulted  about  din- 
ner.   We  were  off  duty — we  might  either  return 
for  the  army  mess  or  buy  our  own  meal  at  the 
restaurant.    We  paid  the  gargon  and  decided  upon 
the  restaurant  a  few  doors  away.     Several  of  the 
men  were  struggling  into  their  rubber  coats.     I 
told  them  that  I  would  follow  shortly.     I  had  just 
caught   a   sentence   from  across   the   room   that 
thrilled  me.    It  held  a  note  of  mystery — or  trag- 
edy.    It  brought  life  out  of  the  commonplace  nor- 
mality of  aperitif  hour  at  the  Lion  d'Or. 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         135 

The  speakers  were  two  Frenchmen  of  middle 
age — fat  and  bearded.  They  were  dressed  in 
ordinary  black,  but  wore  it  with  a  ceremonial 
rather  than  conventional  manner.  The  atmos- 
phere of  the  city  did  not  seem  upon  them.  They 
might  rather  be  the  butcher  and  the  grocer  of  a 
small  town.  One  of  the  pair  had  sat  alone  for 
some  time  before  the  second  arrived.  I  had 
noticed  him.  He  seemed  to  have  no  acquaint- 
ances in  the  place — which  was  unusual.  He  drank 
two  cognacs  in  rapid  succession — ^which  was  still 
more  unusual.  One  drink  always  satisfies  a 
Frenchman  at  aperitif  hour — and  it  is  very  sel- 
dom cognac. 

When  the  second  man  entered  the  other  started 
from  his  seat  and  held  out  both  hands  eagerly. 
*  *  So  you  got  out  safe ! ' '  were  the  words  I  heard ; 
but  our  crowd  was  hurrying  toward  the  door,  and 
I  lost  the  actual  greeting.  I  ordered  another  ver- 
mouth and  waited. 

The  two  men  were  seated  opposite  each  other. 
The  first  man  nervously  motioned  to  the  waiter 
and  the  newcomer  gave  his  order.  It  was  plain 
that  they  were  both  excited,  but  the  table  adjoin- 
ing was  unoccupied,  so  they  attracted  no  atten- 
tion. The  noisy  waiter,  banging  bottles  on  the 
table,  drowned  out  the  next  few  sentences.    Then 


136  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

I  heard  the  second  man:  *^So  I  got  out  first,  but 
you  managed  to  get  here  yesterday — a  day  in 
advance. ' ' 

The  other  replied:  ''I  was  lucky  enough  to  get 
a  horse.  They  were  shelling  the  market  place 
when  I  left.'' 

The  second  man  gulped  his  drink  and  plucked 
nervously  at  the  other's  sleeve.  *'My  wife  is  at 
the  hotel,"  he  almost  mumbled  the  words,  ''I 
must  tell  her — you  said  the  market  place.  But 
how  about  the  Rue  Jeanne  d'Arc? — her  sister 
lived  there.     She  remained." 

''How  about  the  Rue  Jeanne  d'Arc?"  the  other 
repeated.  He  clucked  Ms  tongue  sympathetically. 
''That  was  all  destroyed  in  the  morning." 

The  second  man  drew  a  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket  and  mopped  the  sweat  from  his  forehead. 

(C)  Those  from  Quesnoy-sur-Somme 

They  were  climbing  out  of  the  cattle  cars  into 
the  mud  of  the  freight  yards.  They  numbered 
about  fifty, — the  old,  the  halt,  the  blind  and  the 
children.  We  were  whizzing  past  on  a  motor 
ambulance  with  two  desperately  wounded  men 
inside,  headed  for  a  hospital  a  half  mile  away. 
The  Medical  Major  said  that  unless  we  hurried  the 
men  would  probably  be  dead  when  we  arrived. 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         137 

So  we  could  not  lessen  speed  as  those  from  Ques- 
noy-sur-Somme  descended  painfully  from  the  cat- 
tle cars.  Instead,  we  sounded  the  siren  for  them 
to  get  out  of  our  way.  The  mud  from  our  wheels 
splattered  them.  But  it  was  not  mud — ^not  regu- 
lar mud.  It  was  black  unhealthy  ooze,  generated 
after  a  month  of  rain  in  the  aged  layers  of  train 
soot.  It  was  full  of  fever  germs.  Typhoid  was 
on  the  rampage. 

As  we  passed  the  sentinels  at  the  gates  of  the 
yards  we  were  forced  to  halt  in  a  jam  of  ammu- 
nition and  food  wagons.  To  the  army  that  sur- 
vives is  given  the  first  thought.  The  wounded 
in  the  ambulance  could  wait.  We  took  right  of 
way  only  over  civilians — including  refugees. 

We  asked  a  sentinel  concerning  those  descend- 
ing from  the  cattle  cars,  ''Id  has/'  He  said  they 
came  from  a  place  called  Quesnoy-sur-Somme. 
It  was  not  a  city  he  told  us,  nor  a  town — not  even 
a  village.  Just  a  straggling  hamlet  along  the 
river  bank — a  place  called  Quesnoy-sur-Somme. 

The  past  tense  was  the  correct  usage  of  the 
verb.  The  place  was  that ;  but  now — ^now  it  is  just 
a  black  path  of  desolation  beside  a  lifeless  river. 
The  artillery  had  thundered  across  the  banks  for 
a  month.  The  fish  floated  backs  down  on  the 
water. 


138  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

When  the  ammunition  and  food  wagons  gave 
us  room  enough,  we  again  raced  through  the 
streets  and  delivered  our  wounded  at  the  hos- 
pital— alive.  Then  we  returned  to  the  freight 
yards  for  more.  Several  ambulance  columns  had 
worked  through  the  night  from  the  field  hospitals 
to  the  freight  yards.  There  the  men  were  sorted 
and  the  less  desperate  cases  entrained. 

We  plowed  our  way  carefully  through  the 
ooze  of  the  yards,  for  ahead  of  us  walked  those 
from  Quesnoy-sur-Somme  on  their  way  to  the 
gave.  They  walked  slowly — painfully,  except  the 
children,  who  danced  beside  our  running  board 
and  laughed  at  the  funny  red  crosses  painted  on 
the  canvas  sides  of  the  ambulance.  It  was  rain- 
ing— as  usual.  The  sky  was  the  coldest  gray  in 
the  universe,  and  the  earth  and  dingy  buildings, 
darker  in  tone,  were  still  more  dismal.  But  one 
tiny  child  had  a  fat  slab  of  bread  covered  thickly 
with  red  jam.  She  raised  her  sticky  pink  face  to 
ours  and  laughed  gloriously.  She  waved  her 
pudgy  fist  holding  the  bread  and  jam,  and  shouted, 
''Vive  la  France!" 

We  were  now  just  crawling  through  the  mire. 
The  refugees  surrounded  us  on  all  sides.  The 
mother  seized  the  waving  little  arm,  and  dragged 
the  child  away.     The  woman  did  not  look  at  us. 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         139 

She  just  plodded  along,  eyes  fixed  on  the  mud  that 
closed  over  her  shoes  at  every  step.  She  was 
bareheaded  and  the  rain  glistened  in  great  drops 
upon  her  hair.  The  child  hung  back.  The 
mother  merely  tightened  her  grip,  doggedly  pa- 
tient.    She  was  past  either  curiosity  or  reproof. 

Our  car  ran  so  slowly  that  accidentally  we 
killed  the  engine.  I  got  out  to  crank  her  up  and 
meantime  the  forlorn  mass  surged  by.  Two  sol- 
diers herded  them  over  the  slippery  tracks  to  a 
shed  beside  the  gare  where  straggled  some  rough 
benches.  We  lined  our  car  up  behind  the  other 
ambulances.  Then  we  went  to  look  at  the  refu- 
gees. 

They  had  dropped  onto  the  benches,  except  the 
children.  The  littlest  ones  tugged  fretfully  at 
their  mothers'  skirts.  The  others  ran  gleefully 
about,  fascinated  by  the  novelty  of  things.  It  was 
a  holiday.  Several  Eed  Cross  women  were  feed- 
ing the  crowd,  passing  about  with  big  hampers  of 
bread  and  pots  of  coffee.  Each  person  received 
also  a  tin  of  dried  meat ;  and  a  cheese  was  served 
to  every  four.     We  helped  carry  the  hampers. 

Most  of  the  refugees  did  not  even  look  at  us; 
they  did  not  raise  their  eyes  from  the  mud.  They 
reached  out  their  hands  and  took  what  we  gave 
them.     Then  they  held  the  food  in  their  laps, 


140  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

listless;  or  staring  out  across  the  yards  into  the 
wet  dusk. 

One  or  two  of  them  talked.  They  had  been 
hustled  out  at  sunrise.  The  French  army  thought 
they  had  occupied  that  dangerous  place  long 
enough.  There  was  no  longer  hope  for  any  living 
thing  remaining.  So  they  came  away — bringing 
nothing  with  them,  herded  along  the  line  by  sol- 
diers. Where  they  were  going  they  did  not  know. 
It  did  not  matter  where.  "C'est  la  guerre!  It 
is  terrible — yes.''  They  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders.   It  is  war ! 

One  old  man,  nearly  blind  and  very  lame,  sat 
forlornly  at  one  end  of  the  line.  He  pulled  at 
an  empty  pipe.  We  gave  him  some  tobacco — 
some  fresh  English  tobacco.  He  knew  that  it  was 
not  French  when  he  rolled  it  in  his  hand.  So  we 
explained  the  brand.  We  explained  patiently,  for 
he  was  very  deaf.  He  was  delighted.  He  had 
heard  of  English  tobacco,  but  had  never  had  any. 
He  stuffed  the  pipe  eagerly  and  lit  it.  He  leaned 
back  against  the  cold  stone  wall  and  puffed  in 
ecstasy.  Ah !  this  English  tobacco  was  good.  He 
was  fortunate. 

We  glanced  back  along  the  line.  As  we  looked 
several  of  the  women  shrank  against  the  wall. 
One  covered  her  eyes.     Two  French  ambulances 


UNDER  THE  CROIX  ROUGE         141 

passed,  carrying  a  wounded  Zouave  on  a  stretcher. 
A  yard  engine  went  shrieking  across  their 
path  and  the  ambulanciers  halted.  The  huddled 
figure  under  the  blankets  groaned  horribly.  Then 
the  procession  proceeded  to  our  first  ambulance. 
The  men  were  on  the  seat,  ready  for  the  race 
against  time  to  the  hospital. 

After  a  few  minutes  the  soldiers  who  had 
herded  the  refugees  into  the  shed  came  again  to 
herd  them  out — back  to  the  cattle  cars.  I  asked 
one  of  the  soldiers  where  they  were  going.  He 
waved  his  hand  vaguely  toward  the  south.  La 
bas/^  he  muttered.  He  didn't  know  exactly. 
They  were  going  somewhere — that  was  all. 
There  was  no  place  for  them  here.  This  station 
was  for  wounded.  And  would  they  ever  return? 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

I  looked  at  the  forlorn  procession  sloshing 
across  the  yards.  The  rain  beat  harder.  It  was 
almost  dark ;  the  yard  lamps  threw  dismal,  sickish 
gleams  across  the  tracks.  The  old  man  with  the 
tobacco  brought  up  the  rear,  helped  along  by  an 
old  woman  hobbling  on  a  stick. 

We  heard  the  voice  of  the  Medical  Major  bawl- 
ing for  **les  ambulances  Americaines. "  We 
looked  behind  into  the  gloom  of  the  gare;  a  pro- 
cession emerged — stretchers  with  huddled  forms 


142  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

under  blankets.  As  far  down  the  yards  as  we 
could  see — just  on  the  edge  of  the  night,  those 
from  Quesnoy-sur-Sonune  were  climbing  slowly 
into  the  cattle  cars. 


PAET  FOUK 
WAE-COEEESPONDING  DE  LUXE 


CHAPTER  Xn 

OUT   WITH   CAPTAIN   BLANK 

*^  Grand  Quartier  General!'^  The  sentry 
barring  the  road  jerked  his  rifle  instantly  to 
rigid  salute.  The  speaker  sat  beside  the  chauf- 
feur of  a  big  limousine.  He  wore  a  wonderful 
new  horizon-blue  captain's  uniform,  but  on  his  left 
arm  was  the  colored  silken  brassard  of  the  Great 
General  headquarters  staff.  It  meant  that  the 
wearer  was  the  direct  agent  of  Pere  Joffre,  and 
though  sentries  dotted  our  route  the  chauffeur 
never  once  brought  the  car  to  a  full  halt. 

Two  other  neutral  correspondents  were  in  the 
car  with  me.  The  tonneau  was  comfortably 
heated  and  electrically  lighted.  Our  baggage  was 
carried  in  other  cars  behind  us,  in  charge  of  order- 
lies. Still  other  cars  carried  an  armed  escort,  in 
case  of  sudden  attack  on  the  lines. 

For  at  last  we  were  going  forth  officially  to  the 
front.  No  sentry  could  stop  us.  No  officer  could 
** detain"  us — there  was  no  fear  of  prison  at  our 
journey's  end.  It  had  been  decided  by  Pere 
Joffre  himself;  and  ^ ^Himself  had  appointed  the 

145 


146  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

Captain,  whose  orders  were  to  remain  with  us  even 
after  our  return  to  Paris,  where  he  would  wait  to 
place  the  magic  vise  of  the  Etat  Major  upon  our 
despatches,  thus  preventing  any  delays  at  the 
regular  Bureau  de  Censure. 

Comfortable  rooms  had  been  reserved  in  hotels 
of  little  villages  behind  the  trenches.  Far  in 
advance  meals  had  been  commanded  to  be  ready 
at  the  hours  of  our  arrival.  Every  detail  of  each 
day's  program  had  been  carefully  arranged. 
And  in  case  we  did  become  accidentally  sepa- 
rated from  our  Captain,  each  of  us  carried  a  pass 
issued  by  the  Ministry  of  War  bearing  our  photo- 
graphs and  in  dramatic  language  fully  accredit- 
ing us  as  correspondents  to  the  armies  of  the 
Republic. 

So  we  lighted  our  cigars  and  lolled  at  our  ease, 
feeling  our  own  importance  just  a  bit  as  each  sen- 
try saluted  respectfully  the  Captain's  silken  bras- 
sard. 

In  the  company  of  Captain  Blank  I  have 
secured  the  greatest  part  of  the  cable  copy  that 
the  war  has  furnished  me,  but  on  that  first  ride 
through  the  snow  fields  of  Northern  France,  I 
little  realized  that  on  my  return  to  Paris  I  would 
send  America  the  most  important  cable  that  I  had 
ever  filed  in  my  life:  for  it  was  the  first  detailed 


OUT  WITH  CAPTAIN  BLANK        147 

description  of  the  French  army  permitted  for 
publication  after  the  battle  of  the  Mame.  Many 
times  during  that  trip  we  asked  each  other  what 
*^news"  there  was  in  all  that  we  saw  that  was 
worth  cabling,  when  a  five-cent  postage  stamp 
would  carry  it  by  letter.  It  was  all  interesting, 
some  of  it  decidedly  exciting ;  but  not  once  did  we 
witness  a  general  engagement  of  the  army. 
There  was  no  storming  of  forts,  no  charges  of  the 
cavalry,  no  capitulation  of  troops.  It  was  just 
the  deadly  winter  waiting  in  the  trenches,  with  the 
sentries  who  never  slept  at  the  port-holes  and  the 
artillery  incessantly  pounding  away  at  the  rear. 
I  decided  that  there  was  nothing  worth  cabling  in 
the  story. 

When  I  returned  to  Paris,  and  a  steam-heated 
apartment,  the  reaction  on  my  physical  forces  was 
so  great  that  I  went  to  bed  for  several  days  with 
the  grippe.  As  I  impatiently  fumed  to  get  to 
work  on  the  story  of  my  trip,  it  suddenly  dawned 
upon  me  that  it  was  a  cable  story  after  all.  Why, 
it  was  one  of  the  biggest  cable  stories  possible — 
it  was  the  story  of  the  French  army.  I  had  just 
been  permitted  a  real  view  of  it,  the  first  accorded 
any  correspondent  in  so  comprehensive  a  manner. 
I  had  followed  a  great  section  of  the  fighting  line, 
had  been  in  the  trenches  under  fire,   and  had 


148  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

received  scientific,  detailed  information  regarding 
this  least  known  of  European  forces. 

Tine,  we  correspondents  knew  what  a  power- 
ful machine  it  was.  We  knew  it  was  getting 
stronger  every  day.  But  America  did  not,  and 
Germany  meanwhile  was  granting  interviews, 
taking  correspondents  to  the  trenches  and  up  in 
balloons  and  aeroplanes  in  their  campaign  for  neu- 
tral sympathy.  Now  France,  or  rather  General 
Joffre — for  his  was  the  first  and  last  word  on 
the  subject  of  war  correspondents — had  decided 
to  combat  the  German  advertising.  Captain 
Blank  was  still  waiting  in  Paris  for  my  copy — 
cable  copy  marked  '^rush'^ — which  I  dictated  in 
bed. 

*^This  army  has  nothing  to  hide,"  said  one  of 
the  greatest  generals  to  me,  during  the  trip. 
^^You  see  what  you  like,  go  where  you  desire  and 
if  you  cannot  get  there,  ask. ' ' 

While  our  party  did  all  the  spectacular  stunts 
the  Germans  had  offered  the  correspondents  in 
such  profusion,  such  as  visiting  the  trenches, 
where  once  a  German  shell  burst  thirty  feet  from 
us,  splattering  us  with  mud,  where  also  snipers 
sent  rifle  balls  hissing  only  a  few  feet  away,  our 
greatest  treats  were  the  scientific  daily  discourses 
given  by  Captain  Blank,  touching  the  entire  his- 


OUT  WITH  CAPTAIN  BLANK        149 

toiy  of  the  first  campaign,  explaining  each  event 
leading  up  to  the  present  position  of  the  two 
armies.  He  gave  the  exact  location  of  every 
French  and  Allied  army  corps  on  the  entire  front. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  line  he  demonstrated 
the  efficiency  of  the  French  secret  service  by  giv- 
ing full  details  of  the  position  and  name  of  every 
German  regiment,  even  to  the  date  of  its  arrival. 

Our  Captain  explained  the  second  great  Ger- 
man blunder  after  their  failure  to  occupy  Paris. 
This  was  their  mistake  in  not  at  once  swinging 
a  line  across  Northern  France,  cutting  off  Calais 
and  Boulogne,  where  they  could  have  leveled  a 
pistol  at  England's  head.  He  explained  that  the 
superior  French  cavalry  dictated  that  the  line 
should  instead  run  straight  north  through  the 
edge  of  Belgium  to  the  sea.  And  he  refuted 
by  many  military  arguments  the  theory  that  cav- 
alry became  obsolete  with  the  advent  of  aero- 
planes. 

Cavalry  formerly  was  used  to  screen  the  infan- 
try advance  and  also  for  shock  purposes  in  the 
charges.  Now  that  the  lines  are  established,  it 
is  mostly  used  with  the  infantry  in  the  trenches; 
but  in  the  great  race  after  the  Marne  to  turn  the 
western  flanks  it  was  the  cavalry's  ability  to  out- 
strip the  infantry  that  kept  the  Germans  from 


150  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

possession  of  all  Northern  France.  In  other 
words,  the  French  chausseurs,  more  brilliant  than 
the  Uhlans,  kept  that  northern  line  straight  until 
the  infantry  corps  had  time  to  take  up  position. 

Once,  on  passing  from  the  second  line  to  a  point 
less  than  a  hundred  yards  from  the  German  rifles, 
I  came  face  to  face  with  a  general  of  division. 
He  was  sauntering  along  for  his  morning's  stroll, 
which  he  chose  to  take  in  the  trenches  with  his 
men  rather  than  on  the  safer  roads  at  the  rear. 
He  smoked  a  cigarette  and  seemed  careless  of  dan- 
ger. He  continually  patted  his  soldiers  on  the 
back  as  he  passed  and  called  them  ^4iis  little 
braves. ' ' 

I  could  not  help  wondering  then  and  since 
whether  the  German  general  opposite  was  setting 
his  men  the  same  splendid  example.  I  inquired 
the  French  general's  name;  he  was  General  Fay- 
olle,  conceded  by  all  the  armies  to  be  one  of  the 
greatest  artillery  experts  in  the  world.  Com- 
radeship between  officers  and  men  always  is  gen- 
eral in  the  French  army,  but  I  never  before  rea- 
lized fully  the  officers'  willingness  to  accept  the 
same  fate  as  their  men. 

In  Paris  the  popular  appellation  for  a  German 
is  ''boche."  Not  once  at  the  front  did  I  hear  this 
word  used  by  officers  or  men.     They  deplore  it. 


OUT  WITH  CAPTAIN  BLANK        151 

just  as  they  deplore  many  things  that  happen  in 
Paris.  Every  officer  I  talked  to  declared  the  Ger- 
mans were  a  brave,  strong  enemy;  they  waste  no 
time  calling  them  names. 

^'They  are  wonderful,  but  we  will  beat  them," 
was  the  way  one  officer  sununed  up  the  general 
feeling. 

Another  illustration  of  the  French  officer  at 
the  front :  the  city  of  Vermelles,  of  10,000  inhabi- 
tants, was  captured  from  the  Germans  after 
thirty-four  days'  fighting.  It  was  taken  literally 
from  house  to  house,  the  French  engineers  sap- 
ping and  mining  the  Germans  out  of  every  strong- 
hold, destroying  every  single  house,  incidentally 
forever  upsetting  my  own  one-time  idea  that  the 
French  are  a  frivolous  people.  So  determined 
were  they  to  retake  this  town  that  they  fought  in 
the  streets  with  artillery  at  a  distance  of  twenty- 
one  feet,  probably  the  shortest  range  artillery 
duel  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

The  Germans  before  the  final  evacuation  buried 
hundreds  of  their  own  dead.  Every  yard  in  the 
city  was  filled  with  little  crosses — the  ground  was 
so  trampled  that  the  mounds  of  graves  were 
crushed  down  level  with  the  ground — and  on  the 
crosses  are  printed  the  names,  with  the  number 
of  the  German  regiments.    At  the  base  of  every 


152  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

cross  rested  either  a  crucifix  or  a  statue  of  the 
Virgin  or  a  wreath  of  artificial  flowers,  all  looted 
from  the  French  graveyard. 

With  the  German  graves  were  French  graves, 
made  afterward.     I  walked  through  this  ruined 
city  where,  aside  from  the  soldiers,  the  only  sign 
of  life  I  saw  was  a  gaunt,  prowling  cat.     With 
me,  past  these  hundreds  of  graves,  walked  half 
a  dozen  French  officers.     They  did  not  pause  to 
read  inscriptions;  they  did  not  comment  on  the 
loot  and  pillage  of  the  graveyard;  they  scarcely 
looked  even  at  the  graves,  but  they  constantly 
raised  their  hands  to  their  caps  in  salute,  regard- 
less of  whether  the  crosses  marked  a  French  or  a 
German  life  destroyed. 
Another  illustration  of  French  humanity: 
We  were  driving  along  back  of  the  advance 
lines.     On  the  road  before  us  a  company  of  terri- 
torial infantry,  after  eight  days  in  the  trenches, 
were  now  marching  back  to  two  days  of  repose 
at  the  rear.    Plodding  along  the  same  road  was 
a  refugee  mother  and  several  little  children  in  a 
donkey  cart;  behind  the  cart,  attached  by  a  rope, 
trundled  a  baby  buggy  with  the  youngest  child 
inside.     The  buggy  suddenly  struck  a  rut  in  the 
road  and  overturned,  spilling  the  baby  into  the 
mud.     Terrible  wails  arose ;  the  soldiers  stiffened 


OUT  WITH  CAPTAIN  BLANK        153 

to  attention.  Then,  seeing  the  accident,  the  entire 
company  broke  ranks  and  rescued  the  infant. 
They  wiped  the  dirt  from  its  face  and  helped  the 
mother  to  bestow  it  again  in  the  cart. 

Our  motor  had  halted;  and  our  captain  from 
the  Great  General  Headquarters,  in  his  gorgeous 
blue  uniform,  climbed  from  the  car,  and  discussed 
with  the  mother  the  safety  of  a  baby  buggy  rid- 
ing behind  a  donkey  cart;  at  the  same  time  con- 
gratulating the  soldier  who  had  rescued  the  child. 

I  took  a  brief  ride  at  the  front  in  an  ante-bellum 
motorbus, — there  being  nothing  left  in  Paris  but 
the  trams  and  subway.  Busses  have  since  been 
used  to  carry  fresh  meat,  to  transport  troops  and 
also  ammunition.  We  trundled  merrily  along  a 
little  country  road,  the  snow-white  fields  on  either 
side  in  strange  contrast  to  the  scenery  when  last 
I  rode  in  that  bus,  in  my  daily  trips  from  my 
home  to  the  Times  office  in  Paris.  The  bus  was 
now  riddled  with  bullets,  but  the  soldier  conduc- 
tor still  jingles  the  bell  to  the  motorman,  although 
he  carries  a  revolver  where  he  formerly  wore  the 
register  for  fares. 

Trench  life  was  one  of  the  surprises  of  the  trip. 
Every  night  since  the  war  began  I  had  heard  pity- 
ing remarks  about  *'the  boys  in  the  trenches," 
especially  if  the  nights  were  cold.    I  was,  there- 


154  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

fore,  prepared  to  find  the  men  standing  in  water 
to  the  knees,  shivering,  wretched,  sick  and 
unhappy.  I  found  just  the  contraiy — the 
trenches  were  clean,  large  and  sanitary,  although, 
of  course,  mud  is  mud.  The  bottoms  of  the 
trenches  in  every  instance  were  corduroy-lined 
with  modern  drains,  which  keep  the  feet  perfectly 
dry.  In  the  large  dugouts  the  men,  except  those 
doing  sentry  duty,  sleep  comfortably  on  dry  straw. 
There  are  special  dugouts  for  officers  and  artil- 
lery observers. 

Although  the  maps  show  the  lines  of  fighting 
to  be  rather  wavy,  one  must  go  to  the  front  really 
to  appreciate  the  zigzag,  snake-like  line  that  it 
really  is.  The  particular  bit  of  trenches  we  vis- 
ited covered  a  front  of  twelve  miles;  but  so 
irregular  was  the  line,  so  intricate  and  vast  the 
system  of  intrenchments,  that  they  measured 
200  miles  on  that  particular  twelve-mile  fighting 
front. 

Leaving  the  trenches  at  the  rear  of  the  com- 
munication hoyaux,  it  is  astonishing  how  little  of 
the  war  can  be  seen.  Ten  feet  after  we  left  our 
trenches  we  could  not  see  even  the  entrance.  We 
stood  in  a  beautiful  open  field  having  our  pictures 
taken,  and  a  few  hundred  yards  away  our  motor 
waited  behind  some  trees.     Suddenly  we  heard  a 


OUT  WITH  CAPTAIN  BLANK        155 

**zip  zip''  over  our  heads.  German  snipers  were 
taking  shots  at  us. 

With  all  considerations  for  the  statement  that 
the  Germans  have  the  greatest  fighting  machine 
the  world  has  ever  seen,  the  French  army  to  me 
seemed  invincible  from  the  standpoints  of  power, 
intelligence  and  humanity.  This  latter  quality, 
judging  from  the  generals  in  command  to  the  men 
in  the  trenches,  especially  impressed  me.  I  did 
not  and  I  do  not  believe  that  an  army  with  such 
ideals  as  the  French  army  can  be  beaten. 

So  I  wrote  my  cable  and  sent  it  to  Captain 
Blank.  He  vised  it,  at  the  same  time  sending 
me  a  letter  which  I  cherish  among  my  possessions. 
He  thanked  me  for  the  sentiments  I  had  expressed 
and  told  me  that  a  copy  of  the  story  would  be  sent 
to  General  Joffre. 

A  few  days  later  I  met  the  doyen  of  war  cor- 
respondents, Frederick  Villiers,  in  a  boulevard 
cafe.  He  was  out  with  me  on  that  trip.  But  he 
began  war-corresponding  with  Archibald  Forbes 
at  the  battle  of  Plevna.  This  is  his  seventeenth 
war.    I  said  to  him: 

*'Mr.  Villiers,  what  did  you  do  with  the  story 
of  this  trip  to  the  front;  you  who  have  been  in  so 
many  battles;  you  who  have  had  a  camel  shot 
under  you  in  the  desert;  you  who  escaped  from 


156  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

Port  Arthur;  you  who  have  seen  more  war  than 
any  living  man?  What  do  you  think  of  this  latest 
edition  of  warT' 

He  answered:  **It  is  different,  very  different,  in 
many  ways ;  but  this  trip  from  which  we  have  just 
returned  is  the  biggest  war  spectacle  that  IVe 
ever  liad!" 

Villiers,  too,  had  seen  the  French  army. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JOFFEE 

*  *  Give  the  French  a  leader  and  they  can  do  any- 
thing.'' Before  the  war  and  since  I  have  heard 
this  thought  more  than  any  other  expressed  in 
cafes,  homes  and  political  assemblies. 

Forty-four  years  before  the  present  war,  almost 
to  a  day,  France  discovered  that  her  last  Napo- 
leon had  only  the  name  of  his  great  ancestor,  and 
none  of  his  genius.  During  all  that  time  she  had 
prayed  for  a  new  leader — not  of  the  name,  for 
Bonaparte  princes  may  not  even  fight  for  France 
— but  for  genius  sufficient  to  restore  her  former 
military  prestige  among  the  nations. 

General  Joifre,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
had  been  head  of  the  army  for  only  three  years. 
He  had  received  his  supreme  command  as  a  com- 
promise between  political  parties.  No  one  knew 
anything  about  him — ^he  had  a  good  military 
record  and  was  considered  *^safe."  But  at  the 
last  grand  maneuvers  he  had  given  the  nation  a 
sudden  jar  by  unceremoniously  and  without  com- 
ment dismissing  five  gold-laced  generals. 

IS7 


158  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

On  one  of  the  first  days  of  the  war,  at  four  in 
the  morning,  I  was  walking  liome — all  taxis  were 
mobilized — after  a  night  passed  in  writing  cable 
copy  for  my  newspaper  concerning  the  momen- 
tous tragedy  that  faced  the  world. 

I  was  accompanied  by  a  journalistic  confrere; 
our  route  led  along  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  past  the 
Foreign  Office,  where  the  Cabinet  of  France  had 
been  sitting  all  night  in  war  council.  It  was  just 
daybreak.  The  sun  was  beginning  to  glint  on 
the  waters  of  the  Seine.  We  walked  up  the  Bou- 
levard des  Invalides  and  halted,  without  speak- 
ing, but  in  common  thought,  before  the  tomb  of 
Napoleon  Bonaparte.  The  sun  suddenly  broke  in 
splendor  over  the  golden  dome. 

**It  seems  like  a  good  omen^''  I  said  to  my 
friend. 

**Yes — if  France  had  a  Napoleon  to-day  .  .  .'' 
was  his  reply. 

He  was  a  newcomer  to  Paris. 

**Tell  me  about  the  Commander-in-Chief,''  he 
asked  me.     ^^Who  is  Joffre,  anyway  f 

I  told  him  what  everj^body  knew,  which  was 
almost  nothing. 

Now  let  me  shift  the  picture  from  the  tomb  of 
Napoleon  on  a  sunny  morning  in  August.  It  is 
a  bleak  day  on  the  undulating  plains  of  Cham- 


JOFFRE  159 

pagne — a  few  kilometers  to  the  rear  of  the  battle- 
lines,  where  the  French  had  been  steadily  gaining 
ground  for  several  weeks.  Only  the  week  before 
they  brilliantly  stormed  the  hills  where  the  Ger- 
mans had  entrenched  after  the  battle  of  the 
Marne,  and  they  captured  every  position. 

A  fine  drizzle  had  been  falling  since  early  morn- 
ing, making  the  ground  soggy  and  slippery.  Along 
the  roads  the  crowds  of  peasants  and  inhabitants 
of  near-by  villages  are  sloshing  toward  the  great 
open  plain.  But  all  the  roads  are  barred  by  sen- 
tries and  they  are  turned  back.  No  civilian  eyes 
except  those  of  a  half  dozen  newspapermen  may 
see  w^hat  is  to  happen  there.  Yes,  something  is 
to  happen  there — something  impressive — some- 
thing soul-stirring — but  there  are  to  be  no  cheer- 
ing spectators,  no  heraldry  and  no  pomp. 

It  is  to  be  ■  a  military  pageant,  without  the 
crowd.  It  is  a  change  from  the  ante-bellum  mili- 
tary show  at  Longchamps  on  the  fourteenth  of 
July,  when  the  tri-color  waved  everywhere,  when 
the  President  of  the  Kepublic  and  the  generals  of 
the  army  in  brilliant  uniforms  reviewed  the  troops 
of  France,  and  all  the  great  world  was  there  to 
see. 

This  is  to  be  a  review  of  the  troops  who  took 
the  hills  back  there  a  little  way,  sweeping  on  and 


i6o  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

up  to  victory  while  a  murderous  German  fire 
poured  into  them,  dropping  them  by  thousands. 
Through  that  clump  of  trees  sticking  up  in  the 
mud,  are  little  crosses  marking  the  graves  of  the 
dead. 

Fifteen  thousand  of  the  victorious  troops  will 
pass  in  review  to-day  before  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  of  the  Allied  armies.  Down  across  the  field 
you  can  hear  the  distant  notes  of  a  bugle.  They 
are  taken  up  by  other  buglers  at  various  points. 
Then  across  the  field  comes  a  regimental  band. 
The  players  have  been  in  the  charge  too — with 
rifles  instead  of  musical  instruments.  This  is 
their  first  chance  to  play  in  months — and  play 
they  do.  You  hear  the  martial  notes  of  the  Mar- 
seillaise floating  across  the  field,  played  with  a 
force  that  must  have  been  heard  in  the  German 
lines. 

The  regiments  take  up  their  positions  at  one 
side  of  the  field.  General  Langle  de  Carry,  com- 
mander of  the  army  that  did  the  Champagne  fight- 
ing, with  only  a  half  dozen  officers,  take  positions 
at  the  reviewing  stand.  The  reviewing  stand  is 
a  hillock  of  mud.  Both  general  and  officers  wear 
the  long  overcoats  of  the  light  ** horizon  blue," 
the  new  color  of  the  French  army. 


JOFFRE  i6i 

A  man  emerges  from  the  line  of  trees  behind 
the  group  and  plows  his  way  across  the  mud.  He 
is  large  and  bulky.  He  plants  his  feet  firmly  at 
each  step — splashing  the  mud  out  in  all  directions. 
He  wears  a  short  jacket  of  the  ** horizon  blue''  and 
no  overcoat.  He  wears  the  old  red  trousers  of  the 
beginning  of  the  war.  His  hat,  around  which  you 
can  see  the  golden  band  of  oak  leaves  signifying 
that  he  is  a  general,  is  pulled  low  over  his  eyes. 
Drops  of  rain  are  on  his  grizzled  mustache.  A 
leather  belt  is  about  his  powerful  body,  but  he 
wears  no  sword. 

Langle  de  Carry  and  his  officers  whirl  about 
quickly  at  his  approach.  Every  hand  is  raised  in 
salute.  The  bulky  man  touches  the  visor  of  his  hat 
in  response — then  plants  both  his  large  ungloved 
fists  upon  his  hips.  His  feet  are  spread  slightly 
apart.  He  speaks  to  de  Carry  in  a  low  voice. 
As  you  have  already  guessed,  this  big  man  is 
Jotfre. 

You  were  told  at  the  beginning  of  the  war  that 
Joffre  was  a  little  fat  man — like  Napoleon.  That 
is  not  true.  Joffre  is  a  big  man.  He  is  even  a 
tall  man,  but  does  not  look  so  because  of  his  bulk. 
Few  men  possess,  at  his  age,  such  a  powerful  or 
so  healthy  a  body.    That  is  why  he  can  cover  so 


i62  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

many  miles  of  battle  front  in  his  racing  auto  every- 
day. That  is  why  he  shows  not  the  slightest  sign 
of  the  wear  and  tear  of  war. 

No  time  is  lost  in  conversation.  The  bugles 
blew  again  and  the  regiments  of  heroes  began 
their  march  past  the  muddy  reviewing  stand. 
Even  in  their  battle-stained  uniforms,  every  regi- 
ment looked  *' smart.''  When  they  came  abreast 
of  Joffre,  stolidly  and  solidly  standing  a  step  in 
advance  of  the  others,  the  long  line  of  rifles  raised 
in  salute  is  as  straight  as  ever  that  of  a  German 
regiment  on  parade  at  Potsdam,  despite  deep  and 
slippery  mud. 

After  the  infantry  came  the  famous  **  seventy- 
fives''  with  the  same  machine-like  precision  that 
before  the  war  we  always  associated  with  Ger- 
mans. The  review  ends  with  a  regiment  of  heavy 
cavalry — cuirassiers — coming  at  full  charge,  ris- 
ing high  in  their  stirrups,  with  swords  aloft,  and 
breaking  into  a  battle  yell  when  they  passed 
** Father  Joffre,"  as  he  is  called  by  his  soldiers. 

Through  it  all  he  stands  motionless,  feet  apart, 
one  hand  planted  on  his  hip,  raising  the  other  to 
the  visor  of  his  hat,  peering  beneath  it  straight 
ahead  with  unblinking  eyes.  As  the  men  pass 
this  general  without  a  sword,  with  no  medals,  no 
gold  braid,  no  overcoat — and  in  old  red  trousers 


JOFFRE  163 

— the  rain  pelting  upon  bim,  the  look  on  their 
faces  is  one  of  adoration.  It  matters  not  to  them 
that  there  are  no  cheering  crowds,  no  crashing 
bands,  no  gala  atmosphere.  The  one  eye  in 
France  that  they  care  about  is  upon  them. 

The  long  line  then  forms  facing  him,  and  the 
men  to  receive  decorations  advance.  One  of  them 
— a  private — is  to  receive  the  medaille  militaire, 
the  greatest  war  decoration  in  the  world,  for  it 
can  only  be  given  to  privates,  or  to  generals  com- 
manding armies  who  have  already  received  the 
G-rand  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  Joif  re  him- 
self only  won  it  after  the  battle  of  the  Marne. 

The  private  now  to  receive  the  medal  is  brought 
before  the  Commander-in-Chief,  who  pins  it  upon 
his  breast.  Joffre  throws  both  his  great  arms 
about  the  private's  shoulders  and  kisses  him  on 
both  cheeks.  The  long  line  of  soldiers  remains 
perfectly  quiet.  But  in  the  eyes  of  many  of  them 
are  tears. 

The  program  is  ended.  Father  Joffre  gets  into 
his  low,  gray  automobile  and  disappears  in  a  swirl 
of  mud,  to  some  other  part  of  the  ^^zone  of  opera- 
tions. ' ' 

The  army  now  knows  it  has  the  real  leader  that 
it  waited  for  so  long.  To  the  general  public  of 
France  Joffre  is  still  a  mystery.    But  they  are 


i64  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

content  with  their  mystery — they  have  faith  in 
liim.  That  is  the  spirit  of  the  new  France — a 
(luiet  faith  and  determination  that  certainly  has 
deceived  the  rest  of  the  world,  especially  Ger- 
many. It  is  the  spirit  of  a  nation  that  has  found 
itself,  and  Jotfre  typifies  it. 

A  few  books  have  appeared  giving  some  infor- 
mation about  the  Commander-in-Chief.  They 
deal  chiefly  with  his  march  to  Timbuctoo  and  his 
career  in  Indo-China.  For  the  rest,  Parisians 
know  that  before  the  war  he  lived  quietly  in  a 
little  villa  in  Auteuil,  and  that  next  to  his  love 
for  his  family,  the  things  he  regarded  as  best  in 
all  the  world  are  peace  and  fishing.  Kecently  it 
was  learned  that  he  commandeered  a  barge  on  one 
of  the  rivers  near  the  battle  line — and  there  he 
sometimes  sits  and  quietly  fishes  while  thinking 
out  new  army  plans.  His  only  other  recreation 
at  the  front  is  reading  at  night  before  going  to 
bed  from  his  favorite  authors,  Balzac,  Dumas  and 
Charles  Dickens.  Joffre  understands  English 
and  reads  it  but  will  not  speak  it.  *'It  is  that  he 
has  an  accent  which  he  likes  not,''  explained  one 
of  his  officers. 

What  Parisians  cannot  understand  is  how  it 
was  that  this  quiet,  perfectly  unemotional  man 
came  into  being  in  the  Midi — as  Southern  France 


JOFFRE  165 

is  called.  From  the  Midi,  as  from  Corsica,  come 
the  hotheads  and  the  firebrands.  The  crowd  cer- 
tainly expected,  when  this  war  came,  that  the 
Commander-in-Chief  of  the  army  would  give 
Paris  a  real  treat  before  going  forth  to  battle — 
that  he  would  parade  the  boulevards  in  dress  uni- 
form at  the  head  of  his  troops.  Alas!  Paris 
has  scarcely  heard  a  band  play  since  the  war  be- 
gan. 

All  the  time  that  Joffre  lived  in  the  little  \illa 
in  Auteuil  he  was  planning  and  waiting  for  the 
day  when  he  should  go  forth  to  battle.  He  was  a 
fatalist  to  the  extent  that  he  felt  by  reason  of  his 
appointment  to  office  three  years  before  that  he 
was  the  chosen  man  to  administer  ''the  revenge" 
— that  he  would  lead  the  armies  of  France  against 
Germany.  He  never  forgot  it  for  an  instant.  It 
was  Joffre  who  did  everything  that  a  human  being 
could  do  before  the  war,  to  prepare  for  the  day. 
It  was  Joffre  who  perfected  the  scheme  of  mobili- 
zation, so  that  France  was  not  caught  entirely  un- 
prepared. 

The  word  '^prepare"  was  always  on  his  lips. 
His  command  of  language  is  forcible,  as  his 
** orders  of  the  day"  have  shown.  In  one  of  his 
early  addresses  to  the  students  of  the  Ecole  Poly- 
technique,  his  closing  words,  uttered  with  a  vigor 


i66  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

that  simply  burned  into  the  students,  were :  *  *  May 
God  forgive  France  if  she  is  not  ready." 

And  so  when  the  war  drums  indeed  began  to 
roll — when  a  military  regime  was  declared 
throughout  France,  and  the  politicians  entered 
either  into  retirement  or  uniform — France  sud- 
denly learned  that  she  had  a  regular  czar  on  the 
job.  The  dismissal  of  five  generals  at  maneuvers 
was  not  a  patch  on  what  was  about  to  happen  to 
the  gold-laced  brigade — after  the  battle  of  Char- 
leroi,  for  instance.  Joffre  has  retired  so  many 
generals  that  the  public  has  lost  track  of  the  num- 
ber. Usually  he  does  it  with  an  utterly  discon- 
certing lack  of  comment  or  explanation.  Only 
occasionally  does  he  assign  that  General  Blank 
has  been  dropped  from  active  service  ^^for  rea- 
sons of  health.'* 

But  he  is  just  as  quick  with  promotions.  The 
brilliant  de  Maud 'buy,  for  instance,  who  was  only 
a  brigade  commander  in  the  battle  of  the  Marne, 
now  commands  an  entire  army. 

I  asked  a  high  officer  concerning  the  war  coun- 
cils at  the  *  ^  Grand  Quartier  General. ' '  His  reply 
was  brief.  **The  war  council,''  he  said,  ^^is 
Joffre.  He  just  tells  everybody  what  to  do — and 
they  do  it."  That  is  Napoleonic  enough,  isn't  it? 
Not  even  the  President  of  France  may  go  to  the 


JOFFRE  167 

front  without  Joffre's  permission — and  if  the 
Minister  of  War  entered  the  zone  of  operations 
without  a  laisser-passer  from  the  Grand  Quartier 
General  he  would  very  likely  be  arrested.  Only 
Joffre  would  call  it  ^'detention" — not  arrest. 

And  as  for  journalists  in  that  forbidden  zone  of 
operations — well — has  not  enough  been  written 
already  concerning  journalists  going  to  jail? 
But  even  to  journalists  Joffre  is  entirely  fair — 
only  journalists  must  play  the  game  according  to 
Joffre's  rules. 

I  happen  to  know  that  Joffre  has  a  thoroughly 
organized  press  clipping  bureau  at  the  Ministry 
of  War  and  every  week  marked  papers — particu- 
larly those  of  neutral  nations — are  presented  to 
him.  One  of  my  proud  possessions  is  a  letter  that 
I  received  from  an  officer  of  this  bureau  stating 
that  one  of  my  cables  to  the  Neiv  York  Times  had 
been  favorably  commented  on  by  the  Commander- 
in-Chief. 

*^Is  this  man  a  great  military  genius  T'  is  still 
a  question  often  asked — despite  the  fact  that  he 
has  a  hold  on  the  army  such  as  no  man  has  had 
since  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  The  war  is  not  over. 
The  Germans  are  still  in  France.  Nevertheless 
all  military  observers  and  critics  with  whom  I 
have  talked  agree  on  one  point.     That  is  that  the 


i68  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

two  weeks'  retreat  wliicli  culminated  in  the  battle 
of  the  Marne  showed  JolTre  to  be  a  strategist  of 
the  very  highest  order.  And  any  man  who  could 
direct  the  retreat  of  an  army,  especially  a  French 
army,  for  two  weeks  and  so  preserve  that  army's 
morale  that  he  could  then  turn  it  around  to  vic- 
tory, must  have  great  qualities  of  genius. 

Ever  since,  Joffre  has  given  ample  evidence  of 
his  quality  as  a  master  in  the  art  of  war,  but  he 
has  forsaken  the  code  of  war  known  as  the  Napo- 
leonic strategy  which  was  in  brief:  **Go  where 
your  enemy  does  not  expect  you  to  go.''  Joffre 
knows  perfectly  well  that  in  modem  war,  over 
such  a  vast  front,  such  tactics  are  impossible;  he 
knows  that  ninety-nine  times  out  of  one  hundred 
your  enemy,  through  his  aeroplanes  and  spies, 
will  know  where  you  are  going. 

Joffre  indicated  his  idea  of  modern  strategy 
some  months  after  the  war  began  when  he  said, 
^ '  I  am  nibbling  at  them. ' '  The  nibbles  have  grad- 
ually become  mouthfuls. 

Joffre  thinks  all  war  is  too  useless  for  unneces- 
sary sacrifice  of  men.  He  saves  them  all  he  can. 
That  is  why  he  would  not  send  reenforcements 
when  the  Germans  attacked  in  front  of  Soissons, 
in  the  presence  of  the  Kaiser.  The  Germans 
were  vastly  superior  in  numbers  at  that  point. 


JOFFRE  169 

The  weather  was  frightful.  Joffre  figured  that 
the  French  losses  would  be  too  heavy  in  a  gen- 
eral battle  there.  He  knew  too  that  the  swollen 
river  Aisne  would  quite  as  effectively  prevent  a 
German  advance.  And  it  did.  Jotfre  did  not 
send  reenforcements  to  Soissons  in  face  of  both 
appeals  and  public  opinion. 

Nothing  moves  him,  when  he  is  convinced  that 
he  is  right.  And  a  general  of  a  combination  of 
armies  who  doggedly  does  what  he  wants  to  do, 
whatever  any  one  else  thinks  about  it — who  dis- 
misses all  opposition  with  a  very  quiet  wave  of 
the  hand,  as  Joffre  does,  undoubtedly  possesses 
an  overpowering  personality. 

Joffre  is  the  last  man  on  earth  to  hold  his 
enemy  lightly.  No  man  knows  better  than  he  how 
strong  the  Germans  are.  But  he  will  keep  up 
that  steady  hammering,  first  at  this  point — then 
at  that  point — then  simultaneously  all  along  the 
line,  pressing  them  back  one  mile  here  and  two 
miles  there,  until  the  German  army  is  beaten  and 
out  of  France.  That  is  what  has  been  going  on 
now,  although  a  large  scale  map  is  necessary  to 
note  just  how  steadily  and  how  gradually  the  Ger- 
mans have  been  pressed  back  everywhere  by  the 
advancing  French  wall  of  steel. 

Let  us  go  back  a  moment  to  that  sunny  August 


170  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

dawn  of  the  beginning  of  the  war.  I  said  to  my 
friend  as  we  stood  looking  at  the  tomb  of  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte:  '*I  wonder  what  that  man  would 
do  if  he  could  come  out  of  that  block  of  granite 
and  conmiand  this  armyT^ 

My  friend  replied : 

*^I  think  he  would  shut  himself  up  in  a  room 
and  read  all  night  the  history  of  all  wars  from  his 
day  to  now.  Then  in  the  morning  he  would  call 
in  a  few  generals  and  hear  them  talk.  After  that 
he  would  take  lunch  with  some  manufacturers  of 
arms  and  ammunition.  He  would  take  tea  with 
some  boss  mathematicians  and  scientists.  He 
might  then  go  for  a  walk  alone.  '  By  dinner,  I 
believe  he  would  be  on  to  the  job  of  modem 
military  strategy  and  ready  for  work.'' 

Whether  General  Joseph  Joffre  is  the  reincar- 
nation of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  I  am  unable  to 
even  discuss.  He  is  the  perfect  antithesis  of  the 
little  Corsican  in  many  ways,  and  he  has  tackled 
a  bigger  job  than  Bonaparte  ever  dreamed  of. 
But  the  heart  of  a  nation  never  beat  more  hope- 
fully than  that  of  the  new  and  united  France. 

**When  the  war  is  over — and  if  Jotfre  is  the 
conqueror — what  will  he  do  thenT' — is  another 
question  asked  nowadays.  I  have  heard  it  re- 
marked that  private  life  with  comparative  obliv- 


JOFFRE  171 

ion  may  not  be  easy  for  the  great  military  hero 
who  now  has  both  a  Belgian  king  and  a  British 
field  marshal  taking  his  orders. 

And  I  have  already  heard  comment  on  what  a 
great  show  Paris  will  have  when  the  war  is  over 
— how  the  Grand  Army  of  France  headed  by 
Father  Joffre  will  march  under  the  Arch  of  Tri- 
umph and  down  the  Champs-Elysees — while  the 
applauding  world  looks  on. 

Perhaps  so.  I  do  not  know.  I  have  already 
said  that  two  things  Joffre  loves  best  in  all  the 
world,  next  to  his  family,  are  peace  and  fishing. 
I  have  a  private  suspicion  that  once  peace  is 
declared.  Father  Joffre  may  turn  his  back  upon 
Paris  and  go  fishing. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  MAKNE  AND  THE  YSER 

It  was  a  drippy  day — a  day  when  winter  over- 
coats were  uncomfortable  but  necessary  to  protect 
against  a  wind  that  swept  over  the  plateau  of 
Artois.  A  party  of  newspapermen  were  begin- 
ing  a  war-corresponding  de  luxe  program 
arranged  by  the  French  war  oflQce.  The  Paris- 
Boulogne  express  had  been  commanded  to  stop 
at  Amiens,  where  limousines  were  waiting  in 
charge  of  an  officer  of  the  Great  General  Staff. 

I  knew  Amiens  of  old.  As  an  ambulance  driver 
at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  when  the  unpopularity 
of  correspondents  reached  the  maximum,  I  had 
brought  wounded  to  the  Amiens  hospitals.  So  I 
knew  the  roads  in  all  directions. 

I  pushed  the  raindrops  from  the  automobile 
window.  We  were  not  going  in  the  direction  of 
the  battle  lines  but  parallel  with  them,  and  then 
bending  into  a  road  toward  the  rear.  I  com- 
municated this  intelligence  to  my  companions. 
One  of  them,  an  old-timer,  yawned  and  said : 

172 


MAN  OF  THE  MARNE  AND  YSER      173 

^'Oli,  it  is  usually  this  way  on  the  first  day  of 
a  trip.  We  are  probably  on  the  way  to  visit  some 
general.  It  takes  a  lot  of  time  but  we  must  act 
as  though  we  liked  it.'' 

^^But  if  the  general  is  a  Somebody,  it  will  be 
worth  while,  especially  if  we  can  interview,''  sug- 
gested another. 

*^We  cannot,"  the  old-timer  said  composedly, 
^^and  he  probably  will  not  be  a  Somebody.  This 
is  a  long  battle  line.  They  have  a  lot  of  gen- 
erals. We  are  probably  calling  on  only  a  gen- 
eral of  brigade.  It  is  possible  that  we  will  not 
remember  his  name.  He  will  tell  us  that  we  are 
welcome.  It  is  a  drawback  of  modern  war  cor- 
responding, especially  if  he  invites  us  to  dinner. ' ' 

''Why,  what  would  be  the  matter  with  thatr' 

*'The  dinner  will  be  excellent,"  was  the  answer. 
''The  dinner  of  a  general  begins  with  Jiors 
d'ceuvres  and  ends  with  cordials — two  or  three 
different  brands.  There  will  be  speeches  and 
there  will  be  no  visit  to  the  trenches — there  will  be 
no  time." 

There  was  no  response  and  our  car  sloshed 
along  in  the  rain. 

We  stopped  before  a  little  red  brick  cottage  set 
back  from  the  road  in  the  midst  of  a  grove  of 
pines.    A  gravel  walk  led  to  the  steps  of  a  small 


174  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

square  veranda  where  a  sentr}^  stood  at  salute. 
We  were  in  the  country.  No  other  houses  were 
near. 

A  young  lieutenant  ran  down  the  walk  and 
greeted  us. 

*'I  don't  know  how  you  will  be  received  inside/* 
was  his  strange  utterance.  **He  said  he  wanted 
to  see  you.  That  is  why  we  sent  word  to  Amiens. 
But  it  doesn't  matter  whether  you  are  journalists 
or  generals.  He  treats  all  comers  the  same — 
that  is,  just  according  to  how  he  feels.  He  will 
either  talk  to  you  or  he  will  expect  you  to  do  all 
the  talking.  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  in  advance 
to  expect  anything." 

I  climbed  out  of  the  car,  wondering.  I  followed 
the  young  lieutenant  into  the  building.  I  stood 
with  the  others  in  a  little  reception  hall  where  an 
orderly  took  our  hats  and  coats.  Facing  us  was  a 
door.  On  it  was  pinned  a  white  page  torn  from  an 
ordinary  writing  pad.  Scrawled  in  ink,  were  the 
words,  ^'Bureau  du  General.'^ 

The  party  was  curiously  silent.  I  felt  that  this 
visit  to  a  general  would  be  diiferent  from  any- 
thing I  had  experienced  before.  We  all  became  a 
little  restless  and  nervous.  I  turned  toward  a 
table  near  the  wall.  On  it  was  a  French  transla- 
tion of  Kipling's  ** Jungle  Book."    I  picked  it 


GENERAL  FOCH 
'The   Man   of   the   Marne   and   the   Yser' 


MAN  OF  THE  MARNE  AND  YSER      175 

up  thinking  how  curious  it  was  to  find  such  a  book 
at  the  headquarters  of  a  general.  I  gasped  with 
surprise  as  I  saw  the  name  of  the  general  writ- 
ten on  the  first  page. 

A  buzzer  sounded  and  an  orderly  bounded  in 
from  the  veranda,  threw  open  the  door  marked 
with  the  white  writing  page,  turned  to  us,  saying, 
^^EntreZj  Messieurs." 

We  entered  a  large  room  with  many  windows, 
all  hung  with  dainty  white  lace.  Despite  the 
gloomy  day  the  room  seemed  sunny,  for  there  were 
at  least  a  dozen  vases  filled  with  yellow  flowers. 
Between  two  dormer  windows  opening  upon  a 
garden  was  stretched  a  great  yellow  map,  dotted 
with  lines  and  stuck  all  over  with  tiny  tri-colored 
flags.  Before  this  map  and  studying  it  closely, 
with  his  back  half  turned  toward  us,  stood  a  Httle 
man.  A  thick  stump  of  unlighted  cigar  was 
between  his  teeth.  His  shoulders  were  thrown 
back,  his  hands  clutched  tightly  behind  him.  He 
wore  the  full  uniform  of  a  general,  with  long  cav- 
alry boots  and  spurs.  At  the  sound  of  our 
entrance,  he  swung  about  dramatically,  on  one 
heel.  We  caught  sight  of  the  Grand  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  blazing  on  his  breast.  He  wore 
no  other  decorations,  and  I  noted  the  absence  of  a 
sword.     The  light  fell  full  upon  his  handsome,  but 


176  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

ravaged  and  aging  face.    The  memory  of  all  that  I 
had  heard  about  him  raced  across  my  mind  in  the 
short  time  before  I  felt  him  seize  my  hand,  saw 
his  blue  eyes  boring  into  mine,  heard  him  asking 
questions  and  stating  facts  directly  to  me.     For 
this  was  the  man  who  sent  the  famous  message  to 
General  Joffre  at  the  critical  moment  of  the  bat- 
tle of  the  Marne,  that  inasmuch  as  his  left  was 
crushed  and  his  right  thrown  back,  he  proposed  to 
attack  with  his  center.     This  was  the  man  who 
later  stemmed  the  German  tide  at  the  Yser,  and 
saved  Calais  and  the  Channel  ports.     This  was 
the  man  who  has  ever  since  commanded  the  Group 
of  Armies  of  the  North,  Belgian,  English  and 
French,  dri\dng  the  enemy  inch  by  inch  through 
the  Labyrinth  and  out  of  Artois.     This  man,  the 
dashing  beau  ideal  of  the  French  army,  the  great 
strategist  of  the  Ecole  de  Guerre,  the  nearest  of 
all  Frenchmen  to  approach  the  ^^man  on  horse- 
back''  picture  of  the  military  hero,  this  man  who 
was  talking  to   me,   and  frankly  telling  me   of 
important  tilings  was  General  Foch. 

I  found  myself  answering  his  questions 
mechanically.  I  told  him  the  name  of  the  paper 
that  I  represented,  also  that  this  was  my  third 
visit  to  the  battle  front  in  Artois. 

**Ah,  yes.    I  know  your  paper, '*  he  said.    **I 


MAN  OF  THE  MARNE  AND  YSER      177 

read  it.  It  has  been  one  of  the  great  forums  for 
the  discussion  of  the  war.  You  have  printed  both 
sides  of  the  question. '^ 

**But  we  are  in  favor  of  the  Allies!"  I  inter- 
rupted. 

^'I  know  that  also — that  is  why  you  have  come 
a  third  time  to  Artois." 

The  next  correspondent  in  the  line  was  a  Span- 
iard. Foch  eyed  him  for  a  moment.  ^'I  know 
you,"  he  said.  *'I  met  you  in  Madrid  six  years 
ago."  The  correspondent  bowed  with  amaze- 
ment at  the  general's  memory.  He  passed  along 
the  line,  shaking  hands.  He  stopped  before  a  tall 
Dutchman,  the  representative  of  a  paper  in 
Amsterdam. 

**Ho!  Ho! — the  big  representative  of  a  little 
nation."  The  Dutchman  was  poked  in  the  ribs 
with  the  genial  index  finger  of  the  GeneraPs  right 
hand.  *^ Don't  you  know  that  if  Germany  wins, 
your  country  will  be  swallowed  up?  You  have 
developed  a  great  commerce  and  valuable  indus- 
tries. Germany  will  never  be  your  friend.  As 
of  old,  the  big  fish  will  eat  the  little  one."  Then 
he  swung  back  down  the  line,  in  my  direction. 

**You  have  already  been  twice  on  my  battle 
front.  You  have  seen  a  great  difference  between 
the  first  and  second  trips.    You  will  see  another 


178  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

great  change  now.  Perhaps  you  will  come  here 
still  again — for  the  last  great  offensive, — in 
Artois.'' 

*'What  do  you  mean,  mon  general?'^  I  asked. 

The  little  man  was  silent  for  a  moment,  chewing 
the  end  of  his  cigar  and  looking  steadily,  first  at 
one  and  then  at  another  of  us.  I  shall  never  for- 
get his  words.  They  revealed  the  cardinal  neces- 
sity for  waging  modern  war. 

*'We  have  shown,"  he  said  slowly,  *Hhat  we 
can  go  through  them  any  time  we  like.  The  great 
need  is  shells.  The  consumption  of  shells  during 
the  last  offensive  was  fantastic.  But  still  we  did 
not.  shoot  enough."  He  stopped,  then  said  still 
more  slowly;  *'The  next  time  we  will  shoot 
enough. ' ' 

**And  then,  mon  general?'^  asked  the  Spaniard. 
*'And  then?" 

**And  then,"  Foch  replied,  **and  then  we  shall 
keep  on  advancing,  and  the  Germans  will  have  to 
go  away." 

He  again  swung  dramatically  on  his  heel,  until 
his  back  was  turned  to  us.  ^'Au  revoir,  Mes- 
sieurs/^ he  said,  and  as  we  filed  silently  and  some- 
what dazedly  from  the  room,  he  was  again  stand- 
ing before  the  huge  map,  chewing  the  cigar,  his 


MAN  OF  THE  MARNE  AND  YSER      179 

shoulders    thrust   back,    and   his   hands    clasped 
tightly  behind  him. 

The  young  lieutenant  climbed  into  our  car. 
He  explained  that  the  general  had  delegated  him 
to  the  party.  He  went  with  us  through  the 
trenches  on  succeeding  days  and  said  good-by 
only  when  we  took  the  train  for  Paris.  He  was 
a  brilliant  young  officer  and  before  the  war  had 
been  a  foreign  correspondent  for  Le  Temps.  For 
that  great  newspaper  he  had  *' covered''  cam- 
paigns in  Asia  and  Africa.  Now  he  explained 
that  he  was  to  be  official  historian  of  the  cam- 
paigns of  General  Foch. 

'*I  am  the  latest  comer  on  his  staff,"  the  lieu- 
tenant said,  *  ^  so  there  was  not  much  room  for  me 
and  he  has  given  me  a  holiday  with  you.  He  has 
not  a  large  staff,  but  the  house  as  you  see  is  very 
little.  So  I  have  the  room  that  a  baby  occupied 
before  the  war.''  The  young  man  smiled  and 
looked  down  at  his  stalwart  frame.  ''There  was 
only  a  little  cot  and  a  rocking  horse  in  the  room. 
I  sleep  on  the  floor.  I  shall  keep  the  cot  for  the 
baby." 

This  conversation  took  place  on  the  last  day  of 
our  trip,  amidst  the  ruins  of  Arras.  The  lieu- 
tenant  talked    continually    of   his    general.    He 


i8o  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

explained  how  the  general  had  told  him  in  detail, 
and  illustrated  by  making  a  plan  with  matches, 
the  great  movement  of  troops  during  the  battle  of 
the  Marne  that  started  the  German  retreat. 

''The  general  broke  all  his  own  rules  of  war,*' 
he  explained;  **all  those  rules  that  he  taught  so 
long  in  the  Ecole  de  Guerre.  He  moved  an  entire 
division — half  of  the  famous  Forty-second  Corps, 
while  it  was  under  fire — he  stretched  out  the 
remainder  of  the  corps  in  a  thin  line  across  its 
place,  and  moved  the  division  behind  his  entire 
army,  then  flung  them  against  the  Prussian  Guard 
as  it  was  beginning  the  attack  on  the  center.  The 
moving  of  troops  already  engaged  with  the  enemy 
had  never  been  done  in  any  war  before.'' 

*'But  he  staked  his  whole  reputation — his  mili- 
tary career  on  it?"  I  asked. 

The  Lieutenant  smiled.  '*0h,  yes,"  he  replied, 
''but  after  he  gave  the  order,  he  went  for  a  long 
walk  in  the  country  with  a  member  of  his  staff, 
who  told  me  afterwards  that  not  once  was  the 
war  mentioned,  and  they  were  gone  three  hours. 
All  that  time  they  talked  about  Spanish  art  and 
Spanish  music.  When  they  returned  to  head- 
quarters, the  general  merely  asked  if  there  was 
any  news,  knowing  well  that  perhaps  he  might 
hear  news  which  would  make  his  name  hated  for- 


MAN  OF  THE  MARNE  AND  YSER      i8i 

ever.  He  was  told  the  tide  had  turned  and  we 
were  winning  the  battle.  He  merely  grunted  and 
lighted  a  fresh  cigar. ' ' 

We  all  remained  silent  and  then  a  number  of 
desultory  questions  were  asked  about  the  position 
of  the  troops.  The  lieutenant  again  explained 
with  matches.  *'The  general  showed  it  to  me 
with  matches,  as  I  have  already  shown."  He 
spoke  reverently,  his  voice  almost  a  whisper. 
**And  I  have  those  matches  that  the  general 
used." 

In  Arras  there  was  just  one  house  left  where 
we  could  take  luncheon — a  fine  old  mansion  be- 
longing to  a  friend  of  our  guide  from  the  Great 
General  Staff.  We  brought  our  food  and  sol- 
diers served  it  in  a  stately  room  with  a  massive 
beamed  ceiling  and  stags'  antlers  decorating  the 
walls.  A  tapestry  concealed  one  wall.  The  of- 
ficer pulled  it  aside  to  show  that  we  sat  in  only 
half  a  room;  the  other  half  had  been  entirely  de- 
stroyed by  shells.  From  the  cellar  an  orderly 
brought  some  of  the  finest  burgundy  in  France. 
There  was  a  piano  in  one  corner  of  the  room. 
When  coffee  was  served,  our  Captain  sat  at  the 
instrument  and  played  snatches  of  Schubert,  Mo- 
zart and  Beethoven. 

The  discussion  at  the  table  turned  to  music. 


i82  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

At  the  same  moment  a  shell  burst  a  few  hundred 
yards  down  the  street. 

*^Play  Wagner/^  some  one  asked. 

A  member  of  our  party  who  had  been  in  Russia 
said: 

**Do  you  permit  German  music?  In  Russia  it 
is  forbidden.'' 

The  officer  replied: 

**How  stupid!  Things  which  are  beautiful  re- 
main beautiful,"  and  he  played  an  air  from 
*^ Tristan"  as  a  shell  went  screaming  overhead. 

The  young  lieutenant,  handsome  and  debonair, 
turned  to  me: 

*^This  is  fine,"  he  said.  **Here  we  are  in  the 
last  house  in  Arras  where  this  scene  is  possible, 
and  perhaps  to-morrow  this  place  will  all  be  gone 
— perhaps  in  ten  minutes."  He  laughed  and  the 
piano  was  silenced  by  the  explosion  of  another 
shell. 

We  climbed  into  our  automobiles  and  hurried 
out  of  town  along  a  road  in  plain  sight  of  the 
German  guns.  I  thought  of  what  General  Foch 
had  said:  *'We  can  go  through  them  any  time 
we  desire."  I  got  out  my  military  map  and 
looked  at  the  German  line,  slipping  gradually 
from  the  plateau  of  Artois  into  the  plain  of 
Douai — the  plain  that  contains  Lens,  Douai  and 


MAN  OF  THE  MARNE  AND  YSER      183 

Lille  and  sweeps  away  across  the  frontier  of  Bel- 
gium. That  was  the  place  to  which  General  Foch 
referred  when  he  said  the  Germans  "must  keep 
on  going  away.'^  I  turned  to  an  officer  beside  me 
in  the  car.  I  said:  "When  the  French  guns  are 
sweeping  that  plain  it  means  the  end  of  the  Ger- 
mans in  Northern  France?"  He  smiled  and 
nodded,  while  I  offered  a  silent  prayer  that  on 
that  day  I  might  be  permitted  by  the  military 
authorities  to  make  my  fourth  visit  to  Artois,  to 
see  the  decisive  victory  of  French  arms  that  I 
believe  will  take  place  there  under  the  command 
of  General  Foch,  and  that  will  help  largely  to 
bring  this  war  to  a  close. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    LABYRINTH 

This  is  a  story  about  what,  in  the  minds  of  the 
French  military  authorities,  ranks  as  the  greatest 
battle  in  the  western  theater  of  operations,  fol- 
lowing the  battle  of  the  Marne. 

So  far  as  I  know  the  battle  has  never  received 
an  oflScial  name.  The  French  communiques  have 
always  vaguely  referred  to  it  as  **  operations  in 
the  sector  north  of  Arras.'' 

I  cannot  minutely  describe  the  conflict;  no  one 
can  do  that  now.  I  can,  however,  tell  what  I  saw 
there  when  the  Ministry  of  War  authorized  me 
to  accompany  a  special  mission  there,  to  which 
I  was  the  only  foreigner  accredited.  I  purpose 
to  call  this  struggle  the  Battle  of  the  Labyrinth, 
for  ^ labyrinth"  is  the  name  applied  to  the  vast 
system  of  entrenchments  all  through  that  region, 
and  from  which  the  Germans  have  been  literally 
blasted  almost  foot  by  foot  by  an  extravagant  use 
of  French  melinite.  This  battle  was  of  vital  im- 
portance because  a  French  defeat  at  the  Laby- 
rinth would  allow  the  Germans  to  sweep  clear 

184 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LABYRINTH      185 

across  Northern  France,  cutting  off  all  communi- 
cation with  England. 

The  battle  of  the  Labyrinth  really  began  in 
October,  1914,  when  General  de  Maud^huy 
stopped  the  Prussian  Guard  before  Arras  with 
his  motley  array  of  tired  territorials,  whom  he 
had  gathered  together  in  a  mighty  rush  north- 
ward after  the  battle  of  the  Marne.  These  crack 
Guards  regiments  afterward  took  on  the  job  at 
Ypres,  while  the  Crown  Prince  of  Bavaria 
assumed  the  vain  task  of  attempting  to  break  de 
Maud'huy's  resistance  and  cut  a  more  southward 
passage  to  the  sea. 

All  winter  de  Maud'huy  worried  him,  not 
seeking  to  make  a  big  advance,  but  contenting  him- 
self with  the  record  of  never  having  lost  a  single 
trench.  With  the  return  of  warm  weather,  just 
after  the  big  French  advance  in  Champagne,  this 
sector  was  chosen  by  Joffre  as  the  place  in  which 
to  take  the  heart  out  of  his  enemy  by  the  delivery 
of  a  mighty  blow. 

The  Germans  probably  thought  that  the  French 
intended  to  concentrate  in  the  Vosges,  as  next 
door  to  Champagne;  so  they  carted  all  their 
poison  gases  there  and  to  Ypres,  where  their  ambi- 
tion still  maintains  ascendency  over  their  good 
sense.    But  where  the  Germans  think  Joffre  is 


i86  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

likely  to  strike  is  usually  the  place  furthest  from 
his  thoughts.  Activities  in  the  Arras  sector  were 
begun  under  the  personal  command  and  direction 
of  the  Commander-in-Chief. 

I  doubt  whether  until  the  war  is  over  it  will  be 
possible  adequately  to  describe  the  battle,  or 
rather,  the  series  of  battles  extending  along  this 
particular  front  of  about  fifty  miles.  *^  Laby- 
rinth'^ certainly  is  the  fittest  word  to  call  it.  I 
always  had  a  fairly  accurate  sense  of  direction; 
but,  it  was  impossible  for  me,  standing  in  many 
places  in  this  giant  battlefield,  to  say  where  were 
the  Germans  and  where  the  French,  so  confusing 
was  the  constant  zigzag  of  the  trenches.  Some- 
times when  I  was  positive  that  a  furious  cannonade 
coming  from  a  certain  position  was  German,  it 
turned  out  to  be  French.  At  other  times,  when  I 
thought  I  was  safely  going  in  the  direction  of  the 
French,  I  was  hauled  back  by  officers  who  told  me 
I  was  heading  directly  into  the  German  line  of 
fire.  I  sometimes  felt  that  the  German  lines  were 
on  three  sides,  and  often  I  was  quite  correct.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  French  lines  often  almost  com- 
pletely surround  the  German  positions. 

One  could  not  tell  from  the  nearness  of  the 
artillery  fire  whether  it  was  from  friend  or  foe. 
Artillery  makes  three  different  noises;  first,  the 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LABYRINTH      187 

sharp  report  followed  by  detonations  like  thunder, 
when  the  shell  first  leaves  the  gun;  second,  the 
rushing  sound  of  the  shell  passing  high  overhead ; 
third,  the  shrill  whistle,  followed  by  the  crash  when 
it  finally  explodes.  In  the  Labyrinth  the  detona- 
tions which  usually  indicated  the  French  fire  might 
be  from  the  German  batteries  stationed  close  by 
but  unable  to  get  our  range,  and  firing  at  a  section 
of  the  French  lines  some  miles  away.  I  finally 
determined  that  when  a  battery  fired  fast  it  was 
French;  for  the  German  fire  became  more  inter- 
mittent every  day. 

I  shall  try  to  give  some  idea  of  what  this  fight- 
ing looks  like.  Late  one  afternoon,  coming  out 
of  a  trench  into  a  green  meadow,  I  suddenly  found 
myself  backed  against  a  mud-bank  made  of  the 
dirt  taken  from  the  trenches.  We  were  just  at 
the  crest  of  a  hill.  In  khaki  clothes  I  was  of  the 
same  color  as  the  mud-bank;  so  an  officer  told  me 
I  was  in  a  fairly  safe  position. 

Modern  war  becomes  a  somewhat  flat  affair 
after  the  first  impressions  have  been  dulled. 

We  blotted  ourselves  against  our  mud-bank,  care- 
fully adjusted  our  glasses,  turned  them  toward 
the  valley  before  us,  whence  came  the  sound  of 
exploding  shells,  and  watched  a  village  dying  in 
the  sunset.    It  was  only  about  a  thousand  yards 


i88  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

away — I  didn't  even  ask  whether  it  was  in  French 
or  German  possession.  A  loud  explosion,  a  roll 
of  dense  black  smoke,  penetrated  at  once  by  the 
long,  horizontal  rays  of  sun,  revealing  tumbling 
roofs  and  crumbling  walls.  A  few  seconds'  inter- 
mission; then  another  explosion;  a  public  school 
in  the  main  street  sagged  suddenly  in  the  center. 
With  no  pause  came  a  succession  of  explosions, 
and  the  building  was  prone  upon  the  ground — a 
jagged  pile  of  broken  stones. 

We  turned  our  glasses  on  the  other  end  of  the 
village.  A  column  of  black  smoke  was  rising 
where  the  church  had  caught  fire.  We  watched  it 
awhile  in  silence.  Ruins  were  getting  very  com- 
mon. I  swept  the  glasses  away  from  the  hamlet 
altogether  and  pointed  out  over  the  distant  fields 
to  the  left. 

*^  Where  are  the  German  trenches?''  I  asked  the 
Major. 

*'I'll  show  you — just  a  moment!"  he  answered, 
and  at  the  same  time  signaling  to  a  soldier 
squatting  in  the  entrance  to  a  trench  near  by,  he 
ordered  the  man  to  convey  a  message  to  the  tele- 
phone station,  which  connected  with  a  *' seventy- 
five"  battery  at  our  rear.  I  was  on  the  point  of 
telling  the  officer  not  to  bother  about  it.  The 
words  were  on  my  lips ;  then  I  thought :  ^ '  Oh,  never 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LABYRINTH      189 

mind!  I  might  as  well  know  where  the  trenches 
are,  now  that  I  have  asked. '^ 

The  soldier  disappeared.  '^ Watch!"  said  the 
officer.  We  peered  intently  across  the  fields  to  the 
left.  In  less  than  a  minute  there  were  two  sharp 
explosions  behind  us,  two  puffs  of  smoke  out  on 
the  horizon  before  us,  about  a  mile  away. 

** That's  where  they  are!"  the  officer  said. 
**Both  shells  went  right  into  them!" 

Away  to  the  right  of  the  village,  now  reduced 
to  ruins,  was  another  larger  village;  we  squared 
around  on  our  mud  bank  to  look  at  that.  This 
town  was  more  important;  it  was  Neuville-Saint- 
Vaast,  which  was  occupied  by  both  French  and 
Germans,  the  former  slowly  retaking  it,  house  by 
house.  We  were  about  half  a  mile  away.  We 
could  see  little ;  for  strangely,  in  this  business  of 
house-to-house  occupation,  most  of  the  fighting  is 
in  the  cellars.  But  I  could  well  imagine  what  was 
going  on,  for  I  had  already  walked  through  the 
ruins  of  Vermelles,  another  town  now  entirely  in 
French  possession,  but  taken  in  the  same  fashion 
after  two  months'  dogged  inch-by-inch  advances. 

So,  when,  looking  at  Neuville-Saint-Vaast,  I 
suddenly  heard  a  tremendous  explosion  and  saw 
a  great  mass  of  masonry  and  debris  of  all  descrip- 
tions flying  high  in  the  air,  I  knew  just  what  had 


igo  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

happened.  The  French — for  it  is  always  the 
French  who  do  it — had  burrowed,  sapped  and  dug 
themselves  laboriously,  patiently,  slowly,  by  tortu- 
ous, narrow  underground  routes  from  one  row  of 
houses  under  the  foundations  of  the  next  row  of 
houses.  There  they  had  planted  mines.  The 
explosion  I  had  just  witnessed  was  of  a  mine. 
Much  of  the  debris  I  saw  flying  through  space  had 
been  German  soldiers  a  few  seconds  before. 

Before  the  smoke  died  away  we  heard  a  savage 
yell.  That  was  the  French  cry  of  victory;  then 
we  heard  a  rapid  cracking  of  rifles.  The  French 
had  evidently  advanced  across  the  space  between 
the  houses  to  finish  the  work  of  their  mine.  When 
one  goes  to  view  the  work  of  these  mines  afterward 
all  that  one  sees  is  a  great  round,  smooth  hole  in 
the  ground — sometimes  30  feet  deep,  often  twice 
that  in  diameter.  Above  it  might  have  been 
either  a  chateau  or  a  stable ;  unless  one  has  an  old 
resident  for  guide  it  is  impossible  to  know. 

It  takes  many  days  and  nights  to  prepare  these 
mines.  It  takes  correct  mathematical  calcula- 
tion to  place  them.  It  takes  morale,  judgment, 
courage,  and  intelligence — this  fighting  from  house 
to  house.  And  yet  the  French  are  called  a  frivo- 
lous people! 

A  cry  from  a  soldier  warned  us  of  a  German 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LABYRINTH      igi 

aeroplane  directly  overhead ;  so  we  stopped  gazing 
at  Neuville-Saint-Vaast.  A  French  aeroplane 
soon  appeared,  and  the  German  one  made  off 
rapidly.  They  usually  do,  as  most  German  war 
planes  are  too  light  to  carry  anything  but  rifles 
and  bombs;  French  machines,  while  slower,  all 
have  mitrailleuses.  A  fight  between  them  is 
unequal,  and  the  inequality  is  not  easily  over- 
come. 

Four  French  machines  were  now  circling  above, 
and  the  German  batteries  opened  fire  on  them.  It 
was  a  beautiful  sight.  There  was  not  a  cloud  in 
the  sky,  and  the  sun  had  not  yet  gone.  We  could 
not  hear  the  shells  explode,  but  little  feathery 
white  clouds  suddenly  appeared  as  if  some  giant 
invisible  hand  had  just  put  them  there — high  up 
in  the  sky.  Another  appeared;  then  another. 
Several  dozen  little  white  clouds  were  vividly  out- 
lined against  the  blue  before  the  French  machines, 
all  untouched,  turned  back  to  their  own  lines. 

The  soldier  with  us  suddenly  threw  himself  face 
down  on  the  ground;  a  second  after  a  German 
shell  tore  a  hole  in  the  field  before  us,  less  than 
a  hundred  yards  away.  I  asked  the  officer  if  we 
had  been  seen,  and  if  they  were  firing  at  us.  He 
said  he  did  not  think  so,  but  we  had  perhaps 
better  move.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  were  hunt- 


192  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

ing  the  battery  that  had  so  accurately  shown  us 
their  trenches  a  short  time  before. 

Instead  of  returning  to  the  point  where  we  had 
left  our  motors  by  the  trench,  we  walked  across 
an  open  field  in  a  direction  which  I  thought  was 
precisely  the  wrong  one.  High  above  us,  con- 
tinually, was  a  rushing  sound  like  giant  wings. 
Occasionally,  when  a  shell  struck  near  us,  we  heard 
the  shrill  whistling  sound,  and  half  a  dozen  times 
in  the  course  of  the  walk  great  holes  were  torn  in 
our  field.  But  artillery  does  not  cause  fear 
easily;  it  is  rifles  that  accomplish  that.  The  sharp 
hissing  of  the  bullet  resembles  so  much  the  sound 
of  a  spitting  cat,  seems  so  personal — as  if  it  was 
intended  just  for  you. 

Artillery  is  entirely  impersonal ;  you  know  that 
the  gunners  do  not  see  you;  that  they  are  firing 
by  arithmetic  at  a  certain  range;  that  their  shell 
is  not  intended  for  any  one  in  particular.  So  you 
walk  on,  among  daisies  and  buttercups.  You 
calculate  the  distance  between  you  and  the  burst- 
ing shell.  You  somehow  feel  that  nothing  will 
harm  you.  You  are  not  afraid;  and  if  you  are 
lucky,  as  we  were,  you  will  find  the  automobiles 
waiting  for  you  just  over  there  beyond  the  brow 
of  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


It  was  just  dawn  when  I  got  off  a  train  at 
Gerbeviller,  the  little  '' Martyr  City*'  that  hides 
its  desolation  as  it  hid  its  existence  in  the  foothills 
of  the  Vosges. 

There  was  a  dense  fog.  At  6  a.  m.  fog  usually 
covers  the  valleys  of  the  Meurthe  and  Moselle. 
From  the  station  I  could  see  only  a  building  across 
the  road.  A  gendarme  demanded  my  credentials. 
I  handed  him  the  laisser-passer  from  the  Quartier 
General  of  the  ^^ First  French  Army,"  which  con- 
trols all  coming  and  going,  all  activity  in  that 
region.  The  gendarme  demanded  to  know  the 
hour  when  I  proposed  to  leave.  I  told  him.  He 
said  it  would  be  necessary  to  have  the  permit 
*^ vised  for  departure''  at  the  headquarters  of  the 
gendarmerie.  He  pointed  to  the  hazy  outlines  of 
another  building  just  distinguishable  through  the 
fog. 

This  was  proof  that  the  town  contained  build- 
ings— not  just  a  building.     The  place  was  not 

193 


194  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

entirely  destroyed,  as  I  had  supposed.  I  went 
down  the  main  street  from  the  station,  the  fog 
enveloping  me.  I  had  letters  to  the  town  officials, 
but  it  was  too  early  in  the  morning  to  present 
them.  I  would  first  get  my  own  impressions  of 
the  wreck  and  ruin. 

But  I  could  see  nothing  on  either  hand  as  I 
stumbled  along  in  the  mud.  So  I  commented  to 
myself  that  this  was  not  as  bad  as  some  places 
I  had  seen.  I  thought  of  the  substantial  station 
and  the  buildings  across  the  road — untouched  by 
war.  I  compared  Gerbeviller  with  places  where 
there  is  not  even  a  station — where  not  even  one 
house  remains  as  the  result  of  ^ '  the  day  when  the 
Germans  came." 

The  road  was  winding  and  steep,  dipping  down 
to  the  swift  little  stream  that  twists  a  turbulent 
passage  through  the  town.  The  day  was  coming 
fast  but  the  fog  remained  white  and  impenetrable. 
After  a  few  minutes  I  began  to  see  dark  shapes  on 
either  side  of  the  road.  Tall,  thin,  irregular 
shapes,  some  high,  some  low,  but  with  outlines  all 
softened,  toned  down  by  the  banks  of  white 
vapor. 

I  started  across  the  road  to  investigate  and  fell 
across  a  pile  of  jagged  masonry  on  the  sidewalk. 
Through  the  fog  I  could  see  tumbled  piles  of 


"WITH  THE  HONORS  OF  WAR"      195 

bricks.  The  shapes  still  remained — specters  that 
seemed  to  move  in  the  light  from  the  valley.  An 
odor  that  was  not  of  the  freshness  of  the  morning 
assailed  me.  I  climbed  across  the  walk.  No  wall 
of  buildings  barred  my  path,  but  I  mounted  higher 
on  the  piles  of  brick  and  stones.  A  heavy  black 
shape  was  now  at  my  left  hand.  I  looked  up  and 
in  the  shadow  there  was  no  fog.  I  could  see  a 
crumbled  swaying  side  of  a  house  that  was.  The 
odor  I  noticed  was  that  caused  by  fire.  Sticking 
from  the  wall  I  could  see  the  charred  wood  joists 
that  once  supported  the  floor  of  the  second  story. 
Higher,  the  lifting  fog  permitted  me  to  see  the 
waving  boughs  of  a  tree  that  hung  over  the  house 
that  was.  At  my  feet,  sticking  out  of  a  pile  of 
bricks  and  stones,  were  the  twisted  iron  fragments 
of  a  child's  bed.    I  climbed  out  into  the  sunshine. 

I  was  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  desolation  and 
a  silence  that  were  profound.  There  was  nothing 
there  that  lived,  except  a  few  fire-blacked  trees 
that  stuck  up  here  and  there  in  the  shelter  of 
broken  walls.  Now  I  understood  the  meaning  of 
the  spectral  shapes.  They  were  nothing  but  the 
broken  walls  of  the  other  houses  that  were.  They 
were  all  that  remained  of  nine-tenths  of  Gerbe- 
viller. 

I  wandered  along  to  where  the  street  turned 


ige  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

sharply.  There  the  ground  pitched  straight  to 
the  little  river.  Half  of  a  house  stood  there, 
unscathed  by  fire;  it  was  one  of  those  unexplain- 
able  freaks  that  often  occur  in  great  catastrophes. 
Even  the  window  glass  was  intact.  Smoke  was 
coming  from  the  chimney.  I  went  to  the  opposite 
side  and  there  stood  an  old  woman  looking  out 
toward  the  river,  brooding  over  the  ruin  stretching 
below  her. 

* '  You  are  lucky, ' '  I  said.  *  *  You  still  have  your 
home.'' 

She  turned  a  toothless  countenance  toward  me 
and  threw  out  her  hands.  I  judged  her  to  be  well 
over  seventy.  It  wasn't  her  home,  she  explained. 
Her  home  was  *4a-bas" — pointing  vaguely  in  the 
distance.  She  had  lived  there  fifty  years — now  it 
was  burned.  Her  son's  house,  he  had  saved  thirty 
years  to  be  able  to  call  it  his  own,  was  also  gone ; 
but  then  her  son  was  dead,  so  what  did  it  matter? 
Yes,  he  was  shot  on  the  day  the  Germans  came. 
He  was  ill,  but  they  killed  him.  Oh,  yes,  she  saw 
him  killed.  When  the  Germans  went  away  she 
came  to  his  house  and  built  a  fire  in  the  stove.  It 
was  very  cold. 

And  why  were  the  houses  burned?  No;  it  was 
not  the  result  of  bombardment.  Gerbeviller  was 
not  bombarded  until  after  the  houses  were  burned. 


"  WITH  THE  HONORS  OF  WAR  "      197 

They  were  burned  by  the  Germans  systemati- 
cally. They  went  from  house  to  house  with  their 
torches  and  oil  and  pitch.  They  did  not  explain 
why  they  burned  the  houses,  but  it  was  because 
they  were  angry. 

The  old  woman  paused  a  moment,  and  a  faint 
flicker  of  a  smile  showed  in  the  wrinkles  about 
her  eyes.     I  asked  her  to  continue  her  story. 

^^You  said  because  they  were  angry,''  I 
prompted.  The  smile  broadened.  Oh,  yes,  they 
were  angry,  she  explained.  They  did  not  even 
make  the  excuse  that  the  villagers  fired  upon  them. 
They  were  just  angry  through  and  through.  And 
it  was  all  because  of  those  seventy-five  French 
chasseurs  who  held  the  bridge. 

Some  one  called  to  her  from  the  ho-use.  She 
hobbled  to  the  door.  **  Any  one  can  tell  you  about 
the  seventy-five  chasseurs,''  she  said,  disappear- 
ing within. 

I  went  on  down  the  road  and  stood  upon  the 
bridge  over  the  swift  little  river.  It  was  a  nar- 
row, tiny  bridge  only  wide  enough  for  one  wagon 
to  pass.  Two  roads  from  the  town  converged 
there,  the  one  over  which  I  had  passed  and  an- 
other which  formed  a  letter  *^V"  at  the  junction 
with  the  bridge.  Across  the  river  only  one  road 
led  away  from  the  bridge  and  it  ran  straight  up 


igS  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

a  hill,  when  it  turned  suddenly  into  the  broad 
national  highway  to  Luneville,  about  five  miles 
away. 

One  house  remained  standing  at  the  end  of  the 
bridge,  nearest  the  town.  Its  roof  was  gone,  and 
its  walls  bore  the  marks  of  hundreds  of  bullets,  but 
it  was  inhabited  by  a  little  old  man  of  fifty,  who 
came  out  to  talk  with  me.  He  was  the  village 
carpenter.  His  house  was  burned,  so  he  had  taken 
refuge  in  the  little  house  at  the  bridge.  During 
the  time  the  Germans  were  there  he  hajd  been  a 
prisoner,  but  they  forgot  him  the  morning  the 
French  army  arrived.  Everybody  was  in  such  a 
hurry,  he  explained. 

I  asked  him  about  the  seventy-five  chasseurs  at 
the  bridge. 

Ah,  yes,  we  were  then  standing  on  the  site  of 
their  barricade.  He  would  tell  me  about  it,  for 
he  had  seen  it  all  from  his  house  half  way  up  the 
hill. 

The  chasseurs  were  first  posted  across  the  river 
on  the  road  to  Luneville,  and  when  the  Germans 
approached,  early  in  the  morning,  they  fell  back 
to  the  bridge,  which  they  had  barricaded  the  night 
before.  It  was  the  only  way  into  Gerbeviller,  so 
the  chasseurs  determined  to  fight.  They  had  torn 
up  the  street  and  thrown  great  earthworks  across 


"  WITH  THE  HONORS  OF  WAR  "      199 

one  end  of  the  bridge.  Additional  barricades 
were  thrown  up  on  the  two  converging  streets, 
part  way  up  the  hill,  behind  which  they  had  mi- 
trailleuses which  could  sweep  the  road  at  the  other 
end  of  the  bridge. 

About  a  half  mile  to  the  south  a  narrow  foot- 
bridge crossed  the  river,  only  wide  enough  for  one 
man.  It  was  a  little  rustic  affair  that  ran  through 
the  grounds  of  the  Chateau  de  Gerbeviller,  which 
faced  the  river  only  a  few  hundred  yards  below 
the  main  bridge.  It  was  a  very  ancient  chateau, 
built  in  the  twelfth  century  and  restored  in  the 
seventeenth  century.  It  was  a  royal  chateau  of 
the  Bourbons.  In  it  once  lived  the  great  Frangois 
de  Montmorency,  Due  de  Luxembourg  and  Mar- 
shal of  France.  Now  it  belonged  to  the  Marquise 
de  Lamberty,  a  cousin  of  the  King  of  Spain. 

I  interrupted,  for  I  wanted  to  hear  about  the 
chasseurs.  I  gave  the  little  old  man  a  cigarette. 
He  seized  it  eagerly — so  eagerly  that  I  also  handed 
him  a  cigar.  He  fondled  that  cigar  for  a  moment 
and  then  placed  it  in  an  inside  pocket.  It  was  a 
very  cheap  and  very  bad  French  cigar,  for  I  was 
in  a  part  of  the  country  that  has  never  heard  of 
Havanas,  but  to  the  little  old  man  it  was  some- 
thing precious.  ^*I  will  keep  it  for  Sunday,'^  he 
said. 


200  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

I  then  got  him  back  to  the  seventy-five  chasseurs. 
It  was  just  eiglit  o'clock  in  the  morning — a  beauti- 
ful sunshiny  morning — when  the  German  column 
appeared  around  the  bend  in  the  road  which  we 
could  see  across  the  bridge,  and  which  joined  the 
highway  from  Luneville.  There  were  twelve 
thousand  in  that  first  column.  One  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  more  came  later.  A  band  was 
playing  ^^Deutschland  iiber  Alles/'  and  the  men 
were  singing.  The  closely-packed  front  ranks  of 
infantry  broke  into  the  goose  step  as  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  town.  It  was  a  wonderful  sight ;  the 
sun  glistened  on  their  helmets;  they  marched  as 
though  on  parade  right  down  almost  to  the  oppo- 
site end  of  the  bridge. 

Then  came  the  command  to  halt.  For  a  moment 
there  was  a  complete  silence.  The  Grermans,  only 
a  couple  of  hundred  yards  from  the  barricade, 
seemed  slowly  to  consider  the  situation.  The 
Captain  of  the  chasseurs,  from  a  shelter  behind 
the  very  little  house  that  was  still  standing — and 
where  his  men  up  the  two  roads  could  see  him — 
softly  waved  his  hand. 

Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack- 
erack!  The  bullets  from  the  mitrailleuses  whis- 
tled across  the  bridge  into  the  front  ranks  of  the 


"  WITH  THE  HONORS  OF  WAR  "      201 

'*Deutschland  iiber  AUes'^  singers,  while  the  men 
behind  the  bridge  barricade  began  a  deadly  rifle 
fire. 

Have  you  ever  heard  a  mitrailleuse!  It  is  just 
like  a  telegraph  instrument,  with  its  insistent 
elickety  click-click-click,  only  it  is  a  hundred  times 
as  loud.  Indeed  I  have  been  told  by  French 
officers  that  it  has  sometimes  been  used  as  a  tele- 
graph instrument,  so  accurately  can  its  operator 
reel  out  its  hundred  and  sixty  shots  a  minute. 

On  that  morning  at  the  Gerbeviller  barricade, 
however,  it  went  faster  than  the  telegraph.  These 
men  on  the  converging  roads  just  shifted  their 
range  slightly  and  poured  bullets  into  the  next 
ranks  of  infantry  and  so  on  back  along  the  line, 
until  Germans  were  dropping  by  the  dozen  at  the 
sides  of  the  straight  little  road.  Then  the  column 
broke  ranks  wildly  and  fled  back  into  the  shelter 
of  the  road  from  Luneville. 

A  half  hour  later  a  detachment  of  cavalry 
suddenly  rounded  the  corner  and  charged  straight 
for  the  barricade.  The  seventy-five  were  ready 
for  them.  Some  of  them  got  half  way  across  the 
bridge  and  then  tumbled  into  the  river.  Not  one 
got  back  around  the  corner  of  the  road  to  Lune- 
ville. 


202  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

There  was  another  half  hour  of  quiet,  and  then 
from  the  Luneville  road  a  battery  of  artillery  got 
into  action.  Their  range  was  bad,  so  far  as  any 
achievement  against  the  seventy-five  was  con- 
cerned, so  they  turned  their  attention  to  the 
chateau,  which  they  could  easily  see  from  their 
position  across  the  river.  The  first  shell  struck 
the  majestic  tower  of  the  building  and  shattered 
it.  The  next  smashed  the  roof,  the  third  hit  the 
chapel — and  so  continued  the  bombardment  until 
flames  broke  out  to  complete  the  destruction. 

Of  course  the  Germans  could  not  know  that  the 
chateau  was  empty,  that  its  owner  was  in  Paris 
and  both  her  sons  fighting  in  the  French  army. 
But  they  had  secured  the  military  advantage  of 
demolishing  one  of  the  finest  country  houses  in 
France,  with  its  priceless  tapestries,  ancient 
marbles  and  heirlooms  of  the  Bourbons.  A  howl 
of  German  glee  was  heard  by  the  seventy-five 
chasseurs  crouching  behind  their  barricades.  So 
pleased  were  the  invaders  with  their  achievement 
that  next  they  bravely  swung  out  a  battery  into 
the  road  leading  to  the  bridge,  intending  to  shell 
the  barricades.  The  Captain  of  chasseurs  again 
waved  his  hand.  Every  man  of  the  battery  was 
killed  before  the  guns  were  in  position.  It  took 
an  entire  company  of  infantry — half  of  them  being 


"  WITH  THE  HONORS  OF  WAR  "      203 

killed  in  the  action — to  haul  those  guns  back  into 
the  Luneville  road,  thus  to  clear  the  way  for 
another  advance. 

From  then  on  until  1  o^clock  in  the  afternoon 
there  were  more  infantry  attacks,  all  failing  as 
lamentably  as  the  first.  The  seventy-five  were 
holding  off  the  12,000.  At  the  last  attack  they 
let  the  Grermans  advance  to  the  entrance  of  the 
bridge.  They  invited  them  with  taunts  to  ad- 
vance. Then  they  poured  in  their  deadly  fire,  and 
as  the  Germans  broke  and  fled  they  permitted 
themselves  a  cheer.  Up  to  this  time  not  one 
chasseur  was  killed.    Only  four  were  wounded. 

Shortly  after  1  o'clock  the  German  artillery 
wasted  a  few  more  shells  on  the  ruined  chateau 
and  the  chasseurs  could  see  a  detachment  crawling 
along  the  river  bank  in  the  direction  of  the  narrow 
footbridge  that  crossed  through  the  chateau  park 
a  half  mile  below.  The  Captain  of  the  chasseurs 
sent  one  man  with  a  mitrailleuse  to  hold  the 
bridge.  He  posted  himself  in  the  shelter  of  a 
large  tree  at  one  end.  In  a  few  minutes  about 
fifty  Germans  appeared.  They  advanced  cau- 
tiously on  the  bridge.  The  chasseur  let  them  get 
half  way  over  before  he  raked  them  with  his  fire. 
The  water  below  ran  red  with  blood. 
The   Germans   retreated   for   help   and   made 


204  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

another  attack  an  hour  hiter  with  the  same  result. 
By  4  o'clock,  when  the  lone  chasseur's  ammunition 
was  exhausted,  it  is  estimated  that  he  had  killed 
175  Germans,  who  made  five  desperate  rushes  to 
take  the  position,  which  would  have  enabled  them 
to  make  a  flank  attack  on  the  seventy-four  still 
holding-  the  main  bridge.  When  his  ammunition 
was  gone — which  occurred  at  the  same  time  as  the 
ammunition  at  the  main  bridge  was  exhausted — 
this  chasseur  with  the  others  succeeded  in  effecting 
a  retreat  to  a  main  body  of  cavalry.  If  he  still 
lives — this  modern  Horatius  at  the  bridge — 
he  remains  an  unnamed  hero  in  the  ranks  of  the 
French  army,  unhonored  except  in  the  hearts  of 
those  few  of  his  countrymen  who  know. 

During  the  late  hours  of  the  afternoon  aero- 
planes flew  over  the  chasseurs'  position,  thus  dis- 
covering to  the  Germans  how  really  weak  were 
the  defenses  of  the  town,  how  few  its  defenders. 
Besides  the  ammunition  was  gone.  But  for  eight 
hours — from  eight  in  the  morning  until  four  in 
the  afternoon — the  seventy-five  had  held  the 
12,000. 

Had  that  body  of  12,000  succeeded  earlier  the 
150,000  Germans  that  advanced  the  next  day  might 
have  been  able  to  fall  on  the  French  right  flank 
during  a  critical  battle  of  the  war.     The  total 


"WITH  THE  HONORS  OF  WAR"      205 

casualties  of  the  chasseurs  were  three  killed,  three 
captured,  and  six  wounded. 

The  little  old  man  and  I  had  walked  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  chateau  park  before  he  finished  his 
story.  It  was  still  too  early  for  breakfast.  I 
thanked  him  and  told  him  to  return  to  his  work  in 
the  little  house  by  the  bridge.  I  wanted  to  ex- 
plore the  chateau  at  leisure. 

I  entered  the  place — what  was  left  of  it.  Most 
of  the  walls  were  standing.  Walls  built  in  the 
twelfth  century  do  not  break  easily,  even  with 
modern  artillery.  But  the  modern  roof  and  seven- 
teenth century  inner  walls  were  all  demolished. 
Not  a  single  article  of  furniture  or  decoration 
remained.  But  the  destruction  showed  some  of 
the  same  freaks — similar  to  that  little  house  left 
untouched  by  fire  on  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

For  instance,  the  Bourbon  coat  of  arms  above 
the  grand  staircase  was  untouched,  while  the  stair- 
case itself  was  just  splintered  bits  of  marble.  On 
another  fragment  of  the  wall  there  still  hung  a 
magnificent  stag's  antlers.  Strewed  about  in  the 
corners  I  saw  fragments  of  vases  that  had  been 
priceless.  Even  the  remnants  were  valuable.  In 
the  ruined  music  room  I  found  a  piece  of  fresh, 
clean  music  (an  Alsatian  waltz),  lying  on  the 
mantelpiece.    I  went  out  to  the  front  of  the  build- 


2o6  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

ing,  where  the  great  park  sweeps  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  river.  An  old  gardener  in  one  of  the 
side  paths  saw  me.  We  immediately  established 
cordial  relations  with  a  cigarette. 

He  told  me  how,  after  the  chasseurs  retreated 
beyond  the  town,  the  Germans — reduced  over  a 
thousand  of  their  original  number  by  the  activities 
of  the  day — swept  over  the  barricades  of  the 
bridge  and  into  the  town.  Yes,  the  old  woman  I 
had  talked  with  was  right  about  it.  They  were 
very  angry.  They  were  ferociously  angry  at 
being  held  eight  hours  at  that  bridge  by  a  force  so 
ridiculously  small. 

The  first  civilians  they  met  they  killed,  and  then 
they  began  to  fire  the  houses.  One  young  man, 
half-witted,  came  out  of  one  of  the  houses  near 
the  bridge.  They  hanged  him  in  the  garden 
behind  the  house.  Then  they  called  his  mother  to 
see.  A  mob  came  piling  into  the  chateau  headed 
by  four  officers.  All  the  furniture  and  valuables 
that  were  not  destroyed  they  piled  into  a  wagon 
and  sent  back  to  Luneville.  Of  the  gardener  who 
was  telling  me  the  story  they  demanded  the  keys 
of  the  wine  cellars.  No ;  they  did  not  injure  him. 
They  just  held  him  by  the  arms  while  several 
dozen  of  the  soldiers  spat  in  his  face. 

While  the  drunken  crew  were  reeling  about  the 


"  WITH  THE  HONORS  OF  WAR  "     207 

place,  one  of  them  accidentally  stumbled  upon  the 
secret  underground  passage  leading  to  the  famous 
grottoes.  These  grottoes  and  the  underground 
connection  of  the  chateau  were  built  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  They  are  a  half  mile  away,  situated  only 
half  above  ground,  the  entrance  looking  out  on  a 
smooth  lawn  that  extends  to  the  edge  of  the  river. 
Several  giant  trees,  the  trunks  of  which  are 
covered  with  vines,  half  shelter  the  entrance,  which 
is  also  obscured  by  climbing  ivy.  The  interior 
was  one  of  the  treasures  of  France.  The  vaulted 
ceilings  were  done  in  wonderful  mosaic;  the 
walls  decorated  with  marbles  and  rare  sea  shells. 
In  every  nook  were  marble  pedestals  and  antique 
statuary,  while  the  fountain  in  the  center, 
supplied  from  an  underground  stream,  was  of 
porphyry  inlaid  with  mosaic. 

The  Germans  looked  upon  it  with  appreciative 
eyes.  But  they  were  still  very  angry.  Its 
destruction  was  a  necessity  of  war.  It  could  not 
be  destroyed  by  artillery  because  it  was  half  under 
ground  and  screened  by  the  giant  trees.  But  it 
could  be  destroyed  by  picks  and  axes.  A  squad 
of  soldiers  was  detailed  to  the  job.  They  did  it 
thoroughly.  The  gardener  took  me  there  to  see. 
Not  a  scrap  of  the  mosaic  remained.  The  foun- 
tain was  smashed  to  bits.    A  headless  Venus  and 


2o8  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

a  smashed  and  battered  Adonis  were  lying  prone 
upon  the  ground. 

The  visitors  of  the  chateau  and  environs  after- 
ward joined  their  comrades  in  firing  the  town. 
Night  had  come.  Also  across  the  bridge  waited 
the  150,000  reenforcements,  cf  xne  from  Luneville. 
The  five  hundred  of  the  two  thousand  inhabitants 
who  remained  w^  re  herded  to  the  upper  end  of  the 
town  near  the  station.  That  portion  was  not  to 
be  destroyed  because  the  German  General  would 
make  his  headquarters  there. 

The  inhabitants  were  to  be  given  a  treat.  They 
were  to  witness  the  entrance  of  the  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand — the  power  and  might  of  Germany 
was  to  be  exhibited  to  them.  So  while  the  flames 
leaped  high  from  the  burning  city,  reddening  the 
sky  for  miles,  while  old  men  prayed,  while  women 
wept,  while  little  children  whimpered,  the  sound 
of  martial  music  was  heard  down  the  street  near 
the  bridge.  The  infantry,  packed  in  close  forma- 
tion, the  red  light  from  the  fire  shining  on  their 
helmets,  were  doing  the  goose  step  up  the  main 
street  to  the  station — the  great  German  army  had 
entered  the  city  of  Gerbeviller  with  the  honors  of 
war. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SISTER   JULIE,   CHEVALIER  OF   THE   LEGION   OF   HONOR 

A  LITTLE  round  apple  dumpling  sort  of  woman 
in  nun's  costume  was  bobbing  a  curtsy  to  me 
from  the  doorway.  In  excited  French  she  begged 
me  to  be  seated.  For  I  was  ^'Monsieur  I'Ameri- 
cain''  who  had  come  to  visit  Gerbeviller,  the  little 
community  nestling  in  the  foothills  of  the  Vosges, 
that  has  suffered  quite  as  much  from  Germans  as 
any  city,  even  those  in  Belgium.  It  was  her 
*^ grand  pleasure''  that  I  should  come  to  visit  her. 

I  stared  for  a  moment  in  amazement.  I  could 
scarcely  realize  that  this  plump,  bobbing  little 
person  was  the  famous  Sister  Julie.  I  had  pulled 
every  wire  I  could  discover  among  my  acquaint- 
ances at  the  Foreign  Office  and  the  Ministry  of 
War  to  be  granted  the  privilege  of  making  the 
trip  into  that  portion  of  the  forbidden  '^zone  of 
military  activity"  where  Sister  Julie  had  made 
her  name  immortal.  I  carried  a  letter  from  one 
of  the  great  officials  of  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  ad- 
dressed to  the  little  nun  in  terms  of  reverence 

209 


210  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

that  one  might  use  toward  his  mother.  He  signed 
himself  ''Yours,  with  great  affection,"  after  crav- 
ing that  she  would  grant  me  audience.  And 
there  she  was,  with  the  letter  still  unopened  in 
her  hand,  telling  me  how  glad  she  was  to  see  me. 

I  confess  I  expected  a  different  type  of  woman. 
I  thought  a  different  type  necessary  to  handle  the 
German  invaders  in  the  fashion  Sister  Julie 
handled  them  at  Gerbeviller.  I  imagined  a  tall, 
commanding  woman — like  Madame  Macherez, 
Mayor  of  Soissons — would  enter  the  little  sitting 
room  where  I  had  been  waiting  that  sunny  morn- 
ing. 

In  that  little  sitting  room  the  very  atmosphere 
of  war  is  not  permitted.  There  is  too  much  close 
at  hand,  where  nine-tenths  of  the  city  lies  in  ashes 
as  a  result  of  the  German  visit.  So  in  that  room 
there  is  nothing  but  comfort,  peace  and  good 
cheer.  Potted  geraniums  fill  the  window  boxes, 
pretty  chintz  curtains  cover  the  glass.  TMiere 
bullets  had  torn  furrows  in  the  plaster  and  drilled 
holes  in  the  woodwork  the  wounds  were  concealed 
as  far  as  possible.  It  was  hard  to  realize  that  the 
deep,  rumbling  roars  that  shook  the  house  while 
we  talked  were  caused  by  a  Franco-German  artil- 
lery duel  only  a  few  kilometers  away. 

The  little  woman  drew  out  chairs  from  the  cen- 


SISTER  JULIE  IN  THE  DOOR  OF  HER  HOSPITAL 


SISTER  JULIE  211 

ter  table  and  we  seated  ourselves,  she  talking 
continuously  of  liow  glad  she  was  that  one  from 
^'that  great  America''  should  want  to  see  her  and 
know  about  her  work.  Ah!  her  work,  there  was 
still  so  much  to  do  1 

She  got  up  and  toddled  to  the  window,  drawing 
aside  the  chintz  curtains.  *^Poor  Gerbeviller ! " 
she  sighed  as  we  looked  out  over  the  desolate 
waste  of  burned  houses.  ^'My  poor,  poor  Gerbe- 
viller!" 

Tears  stood  in  her  brown  eyes  and  fell  upon 
the  wide  white  collar  of  the  religious  order  that 
she  wore.  She  brushed  them  aside  quickly  and 
turned  to  the  table,  again  all  smiles  and  dimples. 
Yes!  dimples,  for  although  Sister  Julie  is  small, 
she  is  undeniably  plump.  She  has  dimples  in  her 
cheeks  and  in  her  chin — chins  I  might  say.  She 
even  has  dimples  on  the  knuckles  of  her  hands, 
after  the  fashion  of  babies.  Her  face  is  round 
and  rosy.  Her  voice  low  and  mellow.  She  looks 
only  about  forty  of  her  sixty  years — a  woman 
who  seems  to  have  taken  life  as  something  that  is 
always  good.  Evil  and  Germans  seem  never  to 
have  entered  her  door. 

Then  I  remembered  what  this  woman  had  done ; 
how  all  France  is  talking  about  her  and  is  proud 
of  her.     How  the  President  of  the  Republic  went 


212  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

to  the  little,  ruined  city,  accompanied  by  the 
Presidents  of  the  Senate  and  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  and  a  great  military  entourage,  just  to 
hang  the  jeweled  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 
about  her  neck.  I  wondered  what  they  thought 
when  she  bobbed  her  curtsy  in  the  doorway. 

For  it  took  a  war  to  distinguish  this  little 
woman  from  the  crowd.  Outside  her  order  she 
was  unknown  before  the  Germans  came  to  France. 
But  it  did  not  matter  to  her.  She  just  went 
placidly  and  smilingly  on  her  way — ^^  doing  the 
Lord's  work,''  as  she  told  me.  Then  the  day  ar- 
rived when  the  Germans  came,  and  this  little 
round  apple  dumpling  woman  blew  up.  That  is 
just  the  way  it  was.  I  could  tell  it  from  the  way 
her  brown  eyes  flashed  when  she  told  the  tale  to 
me.  She  was  angry  through  and  through  just 
from  the  telling.  She  just  exploded  when  the 
Germans  entered  her  front  door.  And  then  her 
name  was  written  indelibly  on  the  scroll  of  fame 
as  one  of  the  great  heroines  of  the  war. 

The  Germans  wanted  bread,  did  they? — such 
was  the  way  the  story  began — well,  what  did  they 
mean  by  coming  to  her  for  it  I  They  burned  the 
baker's  shop,  didn't  they,  on  the  way  through  the 
town?  Well,  how  did  they  expect  her  to  furnish 
them   bread?     Her   bread   was    for   her    people. 


SISTER  JULIE  213 

Yes,  she  had  a  good  supply  of  it.  But  the  Ger- 
mans could  find  their  own  bread. 

The  German  officer  pointed  a  revolver  at  her 
head.  She  reached  out  her  hand  and  struck  it 
from  his  grasp.  Then  she  waved  a  plump  finger 
under  his  nose.  Her  voice  was  no  longer  low  and 
mellow.  It  was  commanding  and  austere.  How 
dared  he  point  a  revolver  at  her — a  ''religieuse/' 
a  nun?  He  could  get  right  out  of  her  house,  too, 
— and  get  out  quick. 

The  officer's  heavy  jaw  dropped  in  astonish- 
ment. He  backed  his  way  along  the  narrow  hall, 
not  stopping  to  pick  up  his  weapon,  and  kicking 
backward  the  file  of  soldiers  that  crowded  behind 
him.  At  the  door  Sister  Julie  put  a  detaining 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

^  *  You  are  an  officer, ' '  she  said — the  man  under- 
stood French  perfectly.  *^Well,  while  your  sol- 
diers are  setting  fire  to  the  town,  you  just  tell 
them  to  keep  out  of  this  end  of  the  street.  This 
is  my  house ;  it  is  for  me  and  the  five  Sisters  with 
me.  Now  we  have  made  it  a  hospital.  You  bar- 
barians just  keep  out  of  here  with  your  burning.'' 

Barbarians!  The  officer  raised  his  fist  to 
strike.  Something  that  was  not  of  heaven  made 
Sister  Julie's  eyes  deadly  black.  The  man  low- 
ered his  fist,  quailing.     '^The   devil!"   he   said. 


214  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

Yes,  barbarians!  She  almost  shouted  the  word 
at  him — and  it  was  quite  understood  that  his  men 
were  not  to  burn  the  hospital  or  the  houses  ad- 
joining. 

The  crowd  cleared  out  of  the  house  rapidly  and 
the  breadth  of  Sister  Julie's  form  filled  the  door- 
way. It  was  night  and  the  burning  was  progress- 
ing rapidly,  the  Germans  methodically  firing 
every  house.  Some  soldiers  came  to  the  house 
next  to  the  hospital,  and  broke  open  the  door. 
Sister  Julie  left  her  position  in  the  hospital  door- 
way and  advanced  upon  them. 

**Go  away  from  here,''  she  ordered.  *^ Don't 
you  dare  set  that  house  afire.  It  is  next  to  the 
hospital.  If  it  burns  the  hospital  will  burn,  too. 
So  go  away — your  officers  have  said  that  you  are 
not  to  burn  this  end  of  the  street. ' ' 

The  soldiers  gazed  at  her  stupidly.  She  ad- 
vanced upon  them,  waving  her  arms.  Several, 
after  staring  a  moment,  suddenly  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross,  and  the  entire  party  disappeared 
down  the  street  to  continue  their  destruction  else- 
where. 

The  little  nun  then  left  her  post  at  the  door. 
She  went  to  see  that  her  food  supplies  were  safe. 
She  had  a  conference  with  the  other  Sisters,  and 
visited  the  beds  of  the  thirteen  wounded  that  the 


SISTER  JULIE  215 

bouse  already  contained.  Six  of  the  wounded 
were  of  the  band  of  seventy-five  chasseurs  who 
had  held  the  Gerbeviller  bridge  against  the  Ger- 
mans— twelve  thousand  Germans  for  eight  hours 
— until  their  ammunition  gave  out.  The  others 
were  civilians  who  were  shot  when  the  Germans 
finally  entered  the  town. 

After  visiting  her  wounded,  Sister  Julie  went 
out  the  back  door  of  the  house  accompanied  by 
two  of  the  Sisters.  The  three  carried  large 
clothes  baskets,  kitchen  knives,  and  a  hatchet. 
Through  the  gardens  and  behind  the  burning 
houses  they  passed  down  the  hill  to  the  part  of 
the  city  near  the  river,  which  was  already  smol- 
dering in  ashes.  They  went  into  the  ruined 
barns,  where  the  cows  and  horses  were  all  burned 
alive.  I  was  shown  a  bleached  white  bone,  a 
souvenir  of  one  of  the  cows. 

With  the  hatchet  and  knives  they  secured 
enough  bones  and  flesh  from  the  dead  animals  to 
fill  the  two  great  baskets.  Then  they  climbed 
painfully  up  the  hill,  behind  the  burning  buildings, 
to  the  back  door  of  their  home.  Water  was 
drawn  from  their  well,  and  a  great  fire  built  in 
the  old-fashioned  chimney  in  the  kitchen.  The 
enormous  kettle  was  filled  with  the  water,  the 
meat  and  the  bones,  and  soon  the  odor  from  gal- 


2i6  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

Ions  of  soup  penetrated  the  outer  door  to  the 
street.  Again  a  German  officer  headed  a  delega- 
tion into  the  hall. 

**You  have  food  here,"  he  announced  to  Sister 
Julie. 

**We  have,"  she  snapped  hack.  She  was  very 
busy.  She  waved  the  butcher  knife  under  his 
nose.  She  then  told  him  that  the  soup  was  for 
the  people  of  Gerbeviller  and  for  her  wounded. 
She  expressed  no  regret  that  there  would  be  none 
left  for  Germans. 

The  officer  said  that  the  twelve  thousand  who 
entered  Gerbeviller  that  afternoon  was  the  ad- 
vance column.  The  main  body,  with  the  commis- 
sariat, was  coming  shortly.  Meanwhile,  they 
were  hungry.  They  would  take  Sister  Julie's 
supply.  They  would  take  it — eh?  Take  it? 
They  would  only  do  that  over  her  dead  body. 
Meanwhile,  they  would  leave  her  kitchen  in- 
stantly. They  did — the  butcher  knife  making  fe- 
rocious passes  behind  them  on  their  way  to  the 
door.  Sister  JuHe  was  still  doing  her  ^'work  for 
the  Lord." 

She  then  ordered  all  the  wash  tubs  filled  with 
water  and  brought  inside  the  hall.  The  fire  was 
coming  into  the  street.  Dense  smoke  was  every- 
where.   Even  the  Germans  now  seemed  willing 


SISTER  JULIE  217 

to  save  that  particular  part  of  Gerbeviller.  It 
was  the  portion  near  the  railway  station  and  the 
telegraph.  A  substantial  building  near  the  gave 
would  make  an  excellent  headquarters  for  their 
General,  who  was  due  to  arrive  shortly.  The 
civilians  (only  a  few  of  the  2,000  inhabitants 
remained)  were  all  herded  into  a  field  just  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  Sister  Julie,  with  Sister 
Hildegarde,  sallied  forth  with  their  soup,  and  fed 
them.  The  next  day  she  would  see  that  the  Ger- 
mans allowed  them  to  come  to  the  hospital  for 
more. 

When  she  returned,  a  number  of  soldiers  who 
had  discovered  a  wine  cellar  were  reeling  up  the 
street.  They  stopped  in  front  of  the  hospital, 
but  turned  their  attention  to  the  house  opposite. 
They  would  burn  it.  It  had  evidently  been  for- 
gotten. They  broke  into  the  place,  and  in  a 
moment  flames  could  be  seen  through  the  lower 
windows. 

Sister  Julie  called  to  the  soldiers.  They  stared 
at  her  from  the  middle  of  the  road.  She 
motioned  for  them  to  come  to  her.  They  came. 
She  told  them  to  follow  her  into  the  hall.  There 
she  showed  them  the  wash  tubs  full  of  water. 
They  were  to  carry  those  tubs  across  the  street 
and  put  out  the  fire  they  had  started,  and  which 


2i8  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

would  endanger  the  hospital.  This  was  accord- 
ing to  orders  given  by  the  ofiQcers.  After  putting 
out  the  fire  they  were  to  bring  the  tubs  back  and 
refill  them  from  the  well  in  the  back  yard.  The 
work  was  too  heavy  for  the  Sisters. 

When  these  orders  were  obeyed,  Sister  Julie 
carried  a  little  camp  chair  to  the  front  steps  and 
began  a  vigil  that  lasted  all  night  long  and  half 
the  next  day.  She  saw  the  great  German  army  of 
a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  march  by,  the  band 
playing  * '  Deutschland  uber  Alles,"  the  infantry 
doing  the  goose  step  as  they  passed  the  burning 
houses.  Four  times  during  the  night  the  tubs 
of  water  in  the  hall  were  emptied  and  refilled 
when  the  flames  crept  close  to  her  house. 

At  dawn  next  morning  four  officers  approached 
her  where  she  sat  upon  the  doorstep.  One  of 
them  informed  her  that,  inasmuch  as  she  was 
concealing  French  soldiers  with  arms  inside  the 
house,  they  intended  to  make  a  search. 

^*You  are  telling  a  lie,''  she  informed  them 
calmly,  and  did  not  budge.  Two  of  the  officers 
drew  revolvers.  Sister  Julie  sniffed  contemptu- 
ously. The  first  officer  again  spoke.  But  his 
tone  altered.  It  was  less  bumptious.  He  said 
that,  inasmuch  as  the  house  had  been  spared  the 
flames,  at  least  an  investigation  was  necessary. 


SISTER  JULIE  219 

Sister  Julie  arose  and  started  inside.  The 
officers  stopped  her.  Two  of  them  would  lead  the 
way.  The  other  two  would  follow.  The  pair, 
with  drawn  revolvers,  entered  first  and  tiptoed 
cautiously  down  the  hall.  Then  came  the  little 
nun.  The  second  pair  drew  poniards  and  brought 
up  the  rear.  She  directed  them  to  the  rooms  on 
the  first  floor,  the  sitting  room,  dining  room  and 
the  kitchen,  where  Sister  Hildegarde  was  busy 
over  the  fire.  Then  they  went  upstairs  to  the 
beds  of  the  wounded.  The  first  officer  insisted 
that  the  covers  be  drawn  back  from  each  bed 
to  make  sure  that  the  occupants  were  really 
wounded.  Sister  Julie  remained  silent  at  the 
door.  As  they  turned  to  leave,  she  said  with 
sarcasm,  but  with  dignity :  ^  ^  You  have  seen.  You 
know  that  I  have  spoken  the  truth.  We  are  six 
Sisters  of  Mercy.  Our  work  is  to  care  for  the 
sick.  We  will  care  for  your  German  wounded,  as 
well  as  our  French.    You  may  bring  them  here.'* 

That  morning  the  invaders  began  battle  with 
the  French,  who  had  finished  their  entrenchments 
some  kilometers  on  the  other  side  of  the  town. 
At  night  the  Germans  accepted  Sister  Julie's 
invitation,  and  brought  two  hundred  and  fifty- 
eight  wounded  to  her  house.  They  completely 
filled  the  place.    They  were  placed  in  rows  in  the 


220  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

sitting  room,  the  dining  room,  and  the  hall. 
They  were  even  in  the  kitchen  and  in  the  attic. 
The  weather  was  fine  and  they  were  stretched  in 
rows  in  the  garden.  The  few  other  houses 
undestroyed  by  fire  were  also  turned  into  hos- 
pitals, and  for  fourteen  days  Sister  Julie  and  her 
five  assistants  scarcely  slept.  They  just  passed 
the  time  giving  medicine  and  food  and  nursing 
wounds.  By  the  fourteenth  day,  the  French  had 
made  a  considerable  advance  and  were  dropping 
shells  into  the  town,  so  the  Germans  decided  to 
take  away  their  own  wounded. 

During  all  this  time  daily  rations  were  served 
to  the  civilian  survivors,  on  orders  secured  by 
Sister  Julie  at  the  German  headquarters.  The 
civilians  were  ill-treated,  but  they  were  fed.  Sis- 
ter Julie  gave  me  concrete  instances  of  outrage. 
Many  were  killed  for  no  reason  whatever;  some 
were  sent  as  hostages  to  Germany.  During 
fourteen  days  they  were  herded  in  the  field. 
Afterward  ten  were  found  dead,  with  their  hands 
manacled.  Sister  Julie  told  me  one  instance  of 
an  old  woman,  a  paralytic,  seventy-eight  years 
old,  who  was  taken  out  in  an  automobile  to  show 
the  various  wine  cellars  among  the  neighboring 
farms.  The  old  woman  had  not  been  out  of  her 
house  for  years  and  did  not  know  the  wine  cellars. 


SISTER  JULIE  221 

So  the  Germans  killed  her.  Sister  Julie  went  out 
at  night  and  found  her  body.  She  and  Sister 
Hildegarde  buried  it. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifteenth  day,  the  battle 
was  fiercer  than  ever.  The  French  had  taken  a 
hill  near  the  outskirts,  and  mitrailleuse  bullets 
frequently  whistled  through  the  streets.  Sev- 
eral times  they  entered  the  windows  of  Sister 
Julie's  house  and  buried  themselves  in  the  walls. 
But  none  of  the  Sisters  was  hurt. 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  fighting  for  the  next 
few  days.  The  French  were  very  busy  at  some- 
thing— the  Germans  knew  not  what.  They 
became  more  insolent  than  ever,  and  drank  of 
the  wine  they  had  stored  at  the  gare.  In  the 
ruins  of  the  church  they  found  the  grilled  iron 
strong  box,  where  the  priest,  who  had  been  sent 
to  Germany  as  a  hostage,  had  locked  up  the  golden 
communion  vessels,  afterward  giving  the  key  to 
Sister  Julie.  The  lock  was  of  steel,  and  very  old 
and  strong.  They  tried  to  break  it,  but  failed. 
They  came  to  Sister  Julie  for  the  key,  and  she 
sent  them  packing.  ^^I  lied  to  them,"  she  said 
softly.    **I  told  them  I  didn't  have  the  key." 

Through  the  grilled  iron  of  the  box  the  soldiers 
could  see  the  vessels-.  They  were  of  fine  gold, 
and    very    ancient.     They    were    given    to    the 


222  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

church  in  the  fifteenth  century  by  Rene,  Due  de 
Lorraine  and  King  of  Jerusalem.  The  strong 
box  was  riveted  to  the  foundations  of  the  church 
with  bands  of  steel  and  could  not  be  carried  away. 
They  shot  at  the  lock,  to  break  it.  But  it  did 
not  break.  Instead  the  bullets  penetrated  the 
box,  a  half  dozen  tearing  ragged  holes  in  the 
vessels.  The  wine  finally  became  of  greater 
interest  than  the  gold,  and  the  soldiers  went  away. 
That  night  Sister  Julie  went  alone  into  the  ruins 
of  the  church,  opened  the  box,  and  took  the  ves- 
sels out. 

She  paused  in  her  story,  got  up  from  her  chair, 
and  unlocked  a  cabinet  in  the  wall.  From  it  she 
brought  the  vessels  wrapped  in  a  white  cloth.  I 
took  the  great  golden  goblet  in  my  hands  and  saw 
the  holes  of  the  German  bullets.  Sister  Julie  sat 
silent,  looking  out  through  the  chintz  curtains  into 
the  street.     Then  she  smiled. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  eighth  morning  after 
the  wounded  had  been  taken  away.  That  was 
the  happiest  morning  of  her  life,  she  told  me. 
At  5  o^clock  that  morning,  just  after  daybreak, 
Sister  Hildegarde  had  come  to  her  bed  to  tell  her 
that  the  Germans  stationed  near  the  gave  in  that 
part  of  the  town  all  seemed  to  be  going  to  the 


SISTER  JULIE  223 

ruined  part,  near  the  river,  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion from  the  French.  A  few  minutes  later  Sister 
Julie  got  up  and  looked  from  the  window.  Then 
she  almost  fell  down  the  stairs  in  her  rush  to  get 
out  of  doors.  About  fifty  yards  up  the  street  was 
a  watering  trough.  Seated  on  horseback  before 
that  trough,  watering  their  animals,  laughing 
and  smoking  cigarettes,  were  six  French  dra- 
goons. 

^*I  cried  at  the  blessed  sight  of  them,''  she  said. 
**They  sat  there,  so  gay,  so  debonair,  as  only 
Frenchmen  know  how  to  sit  on  horses."  Sister 
Julie  hurried  to  them.  They  smiled  at  her  and 
saluted  as  she  approached. 

*^But  do  you  know  the  Germans  are  here?" 
she  anxiously  inquired.  **You  may  be  taken 
prisoners." 

*^0h,  no,  we  won't,"  they  answered  in  chorus. 
*' There  are  thirty  thousand  more  of  us  just 
behind — due  here  in  about  two  minutes.  The 
whole  French  army  is  on  the  advance." 

Then  came  thirty  thousand.  After  the  thirty 
thousand  came  more  thousands.  All  that  day  the 
street  echoed  to  the  feet  of  marching  Frenchmen. 
Their  faces  were  dark  and  terrible  when  they  saw 
what  the  Germans  had  done.    Most  of  the  day 


224  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

Sister  Julie  sat  on  her  doorstep  and  wept  for  joy. 
Since  that  morning  not  a  German  has  been  seen 
in  Gerbeviller. 

Sister  JuUe  ceased  her  story  and  wiped  the 
tears  that  had  been  running  in  streams  down  her 
cheeks.  We  heard  the  rattle  of  a  drum  outside 
the  window.  It  was  the  signal  of  the  town  crier 
with  news  for  the  population.  Sister  Julie  opened 
the  window  and  looked  out.  It  was  the  announce- 
ment of  the  meeting  to  be  held  that  afternoon,  a 
meeting  that  she  had  arranged  for  discussion  of 
plans  for  rebuilding  the  town.  Five  hundred  of 
the  population  had  returned.  There  was  so  much 
work  to  do.  The  streets  must  be  cleared  of  the 
debris.  The  sagging  walls  must  be  torn  down 
and  new  buildings  erected.  It  would  be  done 
quickly,  immediately  almost;  aid  was  forthcoming 
from  many  quarters.  The  new  houses  would  be 
better  than  the  old.  The  streets  were  to  be  wide 
and  straight,  not  narrow  and  crooked.  Gerbe- 
viller was  to  arise  from  her  ashes  modern  and 
improved.  And  only  a  few  miles  away  the  can- 
non still  roared  and  thundered. 

I  asked  her  about  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  given  her  by  President  Poincare.  I  asked 
why  she  did  not  wear  it.  A  pleased  flush 
deepened  the  color  in  her  rosy  cheeks.    I  shall 


SISTER  JULIE  225 

always  remember  the  grace  and  dignity  of  her 
answer. 

**I  do  not  wear  it  because  it  was  not  meant  for 
me  alone/'  she  said.  ''It  was  given  to  the 
women  of  France  who  have  done  their  duty.'' 

''Not  the  little  red  ribbon  of  the  order,"  I  per- 
sisted.    "You  should  pin  that  on  your  dress." 

But  Sister  Julie  shook  her  head.  She  is  a 
"religieuse,"  she  explained.  Nuns  do  not  wear 
decorations.  They  are  doing  the  work  of  the 
Lord. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   SILENT   CANNON 

On  a  hill  commanding  a  valley  stretching  away 
toward  the  Rhine  is  a  dense  pine  forest.  From 
its  edge  I  looked  far  across  the  frontier  of  Ger- 
many. 

In  a  little  clearing  a  French  artillery  Major 
came  to  meet  me  and  my  guide.  Then  we  walked 
for  miles,  it  seemed,  through  dense  shade  over 
paths  thick  with  needles,  until  we  came  upon  an 
artillery  encampment.  From  the  conversation 
between  my  guide — a  Captain  of  the  General  Staff 
— and  the  artillery  Major  I  learned  that  we  were 
about  to  see  something  new  in  cannon. 

I  am  always  eager  to  see  something  new  in 
cannon.  Since  my  visit  to  the  great  factories 
at  Le  Creusot,  when  I  was  permitted  to  cable  care- 
fully censored  descriptions  of  the  new  giant  guns 
France  was  preparing  against  Germany,  I  have 
always  been  looking  for  these  guns  in  operation. 
So,  when  I  saw  that  here  was  no  ordinary  battery, 
I  began  the  molding  of  phrases  to  use  in  cabling 

226 


THE  SILENT  CANNON  227 

my  impressions.  I  did  not  realize  then  that  I 
was  to  have  the  most  poignant  illustration  since 
the  war  began  of  the  mighty  fundamental  differ- 
ences between  the  Teutonic  and  Latin  civilizations. 

On  a  gentle  slope,  where  the  tops  of  pine  trees 
below  came  up  level  with  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
there  was  a  great  excavation,  such  as  might  have 
been  dug  for  the  foundations  of  a  chateau.  The 
front  part,  facing  the  valley,  was  all  screened  with 
barricades  and  covered  with  evergreens. 

We  entered  the  excavation  from  the  rear,  down 
winding  steps  lined  on  either  side  with  towering 
trees.  These  steps  were  all  concrete,  as  was  also 
the  entire  bottom  of  the  excavation.  The  air  was 
very  fresh  and  cool  as  we  descended.  Up  above 
the  breeze  gently  swayed  the  trees,  which  closed 
over  us  so  densely,  dimming  the  daylight.  I  was 
reminded  of  a  dairy  I  knew  on  an  up-State  farm  in 
New  York.  I  almost  looked  for  jars  of  butter  in 
the  dim  recess  of  the  cool  concrete  cellar.  I  could 
almost  catch  the  odor  of  fresh  milk. 

But  in  the  center  of  our  cavern  was  a  huge  piece 
of  mechanism  that  I  recognized  as  the  ^  *  something 
new  in  cannon."  Above  the  great  steel  base  the 
long,  ugly  barrel  stretched  many  yards  through 
an  aperture  in  front,  and  was  covered  over  with 
evergreens.     The  Major  described  the  gun  in  de- 


228  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

tail — its  size,  range  and  weight  of  its  projectiles. 
I  walked  to  the  front  of  the  aperture  to  look 
at  the  barrel  lying  horizontally  on  the  tops  of  the 
pine  trees  growing  on  tlie  slope  below.  The 
branches  had  been  carefully  cut  from  the  higher 
trees  to  give  a  view  over  the  valley.  I  got  out 
my  field  glasses  and  fixed  them  on  the  horizon 
many  miles  away — just  how  many  miles  away  I 
am  also  not  allowed  to  say.  For  a  long  time  I 
studied  that  horizon  just  where  it  melted  into 
mist.  Then  the  sun's  rays  brightened  it,  and  I 
could  see  more  clearly. 

^^ Looks  like  a  city  out  there,''  I  said  aloud. 
^^It  is,"  said  the  artillery  Major  behind  me. 
I  looked  again  and  could  dimly  make  out  what 
appeared  to  be  the  spires  of  churches. 

^^Look  a  little  to  the  right;  you  can  see  a  much 
larger  building  over  there,"  the  Major  said. 

I  looked,  and  a  huge  gray  mass  loomed  out  of 
the  mist. 

'* That's  a  cathedral,"  he  said. 
I  put  the  glasses  down  and  walked  around  to 
the  open  breech  of  the  giant  cannon,  the  mechan- 
ism of  which  another  officer  was  explaining.  He 
gave  a  lever  a  twist,  and  the  huge  barrel  slowly 
moved  from  right  to  left  over  the  tops  of  the  pine 
trees. 


THE  SILENT  CANNON  229 

The  officer  was  saying  in  answer  to  a  question : 

*  *  No,  we  are  quiet  now.     We  are  just  waiting.  ^ ' 

*' Waiting  for  what!"  I  asked. 

**0h,  just  waiting  until  everything  is  ready." 

**Then  what  will  you  doT' 

**0h,  destroy  the  forts,  I  hope.  This  fellow 
ought  to  account  for  several,"  and  he  patted  the 
side  of  the  barrel. 

*'Will  you  destroy  the  cityf "  I  asked. 

^^What  fori"  he  asked.  ^^What  good  would 
that  do  ?  If  we  expect  to  occupy  a  city  we  do  not 
want  it  destroyed.  Besides," — he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  expressively — ^^we  are  not  Germans." 

I  walked  up  to  the  gun  and  stared  into  the 
breech.  I  adjusted  my  glasses  again  and  through 
them  looked  down  the  barrel.  Out  on  the  horizon 
I  could  see  the  huge  gray  mass  that  the  Major 
said  was  a  cathedral.  The  gun  wa«  trained 
directly  upon  it — this  silent  gun. 

**It  could  hit  that  cathedral  now,"  I  thought  to 
myself.  Then  I  thought  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Eheims.  Again  I  stared  through  the  glasses  into 
the  barrel  of  the  gun.  The  light  was  better  now, 
and  the  tops  of  the  spires  were  visible  above  the 
bulky  gray  mass. 

It  was  the  Cathedral  of  Metz. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

d'aKTAGXAX    and   the   soul   of   FRANCE 

I  MET  d'Artagnan  in  a  forest  of  Lorraine. 
Perhaps  Athos,  Porthos  and  Aramis  were  there 
too,  somewhere  in  the  shadows.  I  saw  only 
d'Artagnan  and  talked  with  him  as  long  as  it  takes 
to  tell  the  story.  I  had  forgotten  how  he  looked 
to  Dumas  pere,  but  I  knew  him  at  once  by  his 
bearing  and  his  spirit.  His  swashbuckling 
manners  are  just  as  arrogantly  gay  now  in  the 
forest  of  Lorraine  and  in  the  trenches  of  the 
Vosges  as  they  were  long  ago  in  old  Paris  and  on 
the  highroad.  He  swaggers  just  as  buoyantly 
with  the  ^'poilus"  of  the  Republic  as  with  the 
musketeers  of  the  Cardinal. 

D'Artagnan  is  a  captain  now;  when  I  met  him 
he  was  attached  to  the  staff  of  a  General  of 
Brigade.  He  is  always  your  beau  ideal  of  a  man. 
He  looks  just  what  he  is — a  fine  French  soldier. 

My  first  glimpse  of  him  was  from  the  automo- 
bile in  which  I  was  riding  with  an  officer  from  the 
Great  General  Staff  whose  business  it  was  to  con- 

230 


THE  SOUL  OF  FRANCE  231 

duct  press  correspondents  to  the  front.  D'Arta- 
gnan  was  walking  towards  us  on  tlie  lonely  forest 
road,  and  signaled  with  a  long  alpenstock  for 
our  driver  to  stop.  He  wore  the  regulation  blue 
uniform,  with  the  three  gold  stripes  of  a  captain 
on  his  sleeve.  He  had  no  sword.  I  find  that 
swords  are  no  longer  the  fashion  with  the  ^'work- 
ing officers''  at  the  front.     They  are  in  the  way. 

Our  car  slid  to  a  stop.  D  'Artagnan's  free  hand 
came  to  salute.  It  was  an  imposing  salute — one 
that  only  d'Artagnan  could  have  made.  His 
heels  snapped  together  with  a  gallant  click  of 
spurs ;  his  arm  swept  up  in  a  semi-circle  from  his 
body;  his  rigid  fingers  touched  the  visor  of  his 
steel  helmet — one  of  the  new  battle  helmets,  very 
light,  strong  and  painted  horizon  blue  to  match 
the  uniform.  The  chin  strap  was  of  heavy  black 
leather  instead  of  the  brass  chain  of  ante-bellum 
parade  helmets. 

D'Artagnan,  from  the  center  of  the  road,  roared 
out  his  name  and  mission.  His  name,  in  his  pres- 
ent reincarnation,  is  known  throughout  the  French 
army,  in  fact  throughout  France.  It  is  known 
to  the  Germans  too,  but  correspondents  are  not 
permitted  to  give  the  names  of  their  officers  until 
the  war  is  over.  Anyway  I  immediately  recog- 
nized him  as  d'Artagnan. 


232  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

His  mission,  announced  with  gusto,  was  to  guide 
us  along  the  lines  held  by  his  brigade.  He  leaped 
to  our  running-board  and  ordered  our  chautTeur 
to  advance. 

He  was  an  impressive  figure,  even  clinging  to 
the  side  of  the  jolting  car.  His  body  lithe  and 
powerful;  his  hands  lean  and  strong;  his  face, 
under  the  visor  of  the  helmet,  was  d'Artagnan's 
own.  A  forehead  high  and  bronzed.  Eyes  blue 
and  both  merry  and  ferocious.  Cheeks  high  but 
rounded.  His  hair,  only  a  little  of  it  showing 
under  the  helmet,  was  black,  but  just  enough  griz- 
zled to  proclaim  him  in  middle  age.  His  mus- 
tache— it  was  a  mustache  of  dreams  and  imagi- 
nation— his  mustache  stuck  out  inches  beyond 
the  cheeks,  and  was  wondrously  twisted  and 
curled. 

His  medals  proved  him  the  survivor  of  many 
hard  campaigns.  Most  officers  when  at  the  front 
wear  only  the  ribbons  of  their  decorations,  if  they 
have  any,  and  leave  the  medals  at  home.  But 
not  d'Artagnan.  He  wore  all  of  his  medals,  in 
a  blazing  row  across  his  chest.  And  he  had  all 
that  were  possible  for  any  man  in  his  position 
to  win.  First  came  the  African  Colonial  medal, 
then  the  medal  for  service  in  Indo-China.  Next 
was  the  Medaille  de  Maroc.     In  the  center  was 


THE  SOUL  OF  FRANCE  233 

the  Legion  of  Honor  and  then  the  Croix  de 
Guerre,  with  four  stars  affixed,  indicating  the 
number  of  times  during  the  present  war, 
d'Artagnan  has  been  mentioned  in  despatches 
for  courage  under  fire.  Finally  came  the  only 
foreign  medal — the  Eussian  Cross  of  St.  George 
— given  by  the  Czar  during  the  present  war  to  a 
very  few  Frenchmen,  and  only  ^'for  great 
bravery. ' ' 

As  d'Artagnan  again  stopped  the  car  and  we 
climbed  out  into  the  road,  which  had  narrowed  to 
a  forest  path,  my  companion  pointed  to  the 
medals. 

^^Our  captain  is  a  professional  soldier,  you  see,'* 
he  said.  ^'He  has  fought  all  his  life — didn't  just 
come  back  when  his  class  was  called  for  this  war. ' ' 

But  I  already  knew  that.  How  could  d'Arta- 
gnan  be  anything  but  a  soldier — a  professional,  if 
you  please — but  fighting  for  the  love  of  it,  and  the 
glory? 

He  tramped  along  in  front  of  us,  the  spurs 
of  his  high  boots  jingling,  and  twirling  the  ends 
of  his  fierce  mustaches.  I  glimpsed  soldiers 
through  the  trees.  Some  came  out  to  the  path 
and  saluted.  To  all  d'Artagnan  returned  a  sa- 
lute with  the  same  wonderful  joy  in  it,  as  though 
it  were  the  first  salute  of  the  day,  or  as  if  he  were 


234  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

passing  a  general.  There  was  the  same  swing 
outward  of  the  arm,  the  same  rigid  formality  of 
bringing  his  hand  to  the  helmet.  The  pomposity 
of  the  salute  he  may  have  learned  from  Porthos, 
but  the  dignity,  the  impressiveness  of  it,  belonged 
to  d'Artagnan. 

His  soldiers  adored  him;  we  could  see  that  as 
we  followed.  Their  eyes  smiled  and  approved. 
And  the  stamp  of  great  admiration  was  in  their 
faces. 

^'They  would  go  through  hell  with  him,"  said 
my  companion.  *^A  good  many  of  them  have. 
He  is  the  favorite  of  his  brigade.'^ 

**He  ought  to  be,''  I  replied.  ^'Ple  is  d'Arta- 
g-nan. ' ' 

^  ^  D 'Artagnan ! ' '  my  companion  cried.  *'Why, 
so  he  is.  I  never  thought  of  it.  But  he  is 
d'Artagnan — alive  and  fighting." 

He  was  a  little  distance  ahead  of  us,  among  the 
trees.  A  sergeant  approached  him  to  make  a 
report.  D'Artagnan  leaned  back  grandly  on  one 
leg,  his  chest  forward,  his  chin  tilted  up,  his  hand, 
as  usual,  twisting  the  mustachios. 

**He  loves  it,"  I  said.  **He  loves  everything 
about  it — this  war.  When  peace  comes  his  life 
will  lose  its  savor. ' ' 

My  officer  of  the  Great  General  Staff  nodded; 


THE  SOUL  OF  FRANCE  235 

d'Artagnan  returned  jauntily,  swinging  his  stick, 
and  in  ringing  tones  told  us  all  that  he  had 
arranged  for  us  to  see. 

We  followed  him  through  a  program  that  has 
been  described  many  times  by  correspondents 
since  the  war  began — the  encampments,  the  bat- 
teries and  the  trenches.  But  never  before  did 
a  correspondent  have  such  a  guide.  It  was  not 
my  first  trip  to  the  front;  but  d'Artagnan  led  me 
into  advanced  trenches,  closer  to  the  Germans 
than  I  had  ever  been  before.  We  crawled  on 
hands  and  knees  and  spoke  in  whispers.  But  I 
was  fascinated  because  d'Artagnan,  just  as 
Dumas  might  have  shown  him,  crawled  ahead, 
waved  his  hand  in  quick,  impatient  gestures  for 
us  to  hurry,  looked  back  to  laugh  and  point 
through  a  loophole  to  great  rents  in  the  wire 
entanglements  showing  where  a  recent  German 
attack  had  failed. 

Only  once,  at  a  point  where  a  road  separated 
two  trench  sections,  and  always  dangerous 
because  of  German  snipers,  did  he  order  us  to 
pass  around  behind  in  the  safety  of  a  boyau  or 
communication  trench.  He  leaped  across  the  bar- 
rier with  a  derisive  yell  of  triumph  and  a  catlike 
quickness  too  astonishing  to  draw  the  German 
fire. 


236  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

Otherwise  lie  let  us  take  far  bigger  chances 
than  usually  permitted  visitors — and  he  made 
us  like  them.  We  squinted  carelessly  through 
risky  loopholes  because  d'Artagnan  did  it  first. 
We  talked  aloud  because  he  did,  and  at  times  when 
ordinary  guides  would  have  made  us  keep  silent. 
He  stood  up  on  a  trench  ledge  and  looked  through 
a  periscope,  then  jumped  down  laughing,  holding 
out  the  periscope  to  show  where  a  bullet  had 
drilled  a  hole  on  the  side  only  a  few  inches  above 
his  head.  It  was  a  game  of  follow  the  leader,  and 
we  followed  because  the  leader  was  d'Artagnan. 

*^They  will  get  him  some  day — he  takes  such 
chances, '^  an  officer  remarked. 

**They  haven't  got  him  yet  and  he  has  had 
more  war  than  any  of  us,"  another  replied. 

On  our  way  back,  behind  the  line  encampments, 
we  met  several  soldiers  carrying  tureens  of  soup. 
D'Artagnan  halted  them,  solemnly  lifted  the 
covers  and  tasted  the  contents.  Then  he  passed 
the  spoon  to  us. 

^^It  is  good,"  he  pronounced,  and  patted  the 
soldiers  on  the  back,  as  we  hurried  on. 

He  now  took  us  to  his  own  quarters,  in  a  dense 
grove  of  pines.  His  house  was  of  pine  boughs, 
half  above  and  half  underground,  with  a  bomb- 
proof cavern  at  the  rear.    Its  furniture  was  a 


THE  SOUL  OF  FRANCE  237 

deal  table  and  a  bed  of  straw.  We  sat  around  on 
camp  stools  and  an  orderly  brought  in  tea. 

D'Artagnan  then  changed  the  subject  for  a  few 
minutes  from  war.  He  had  visited  nearly  all  the 
world,  including  America.  He  turned  to  me,  and 
to  my  surprise  spoke  in  English.  It  was  a  very 
peculiar  English,  but  it  was  not  funny  coming 
from  the  lips  of  d'Artagnan.  He  told  me  about 
his  trip  to  America — how  he  did  not  have  much 
money  at  the  time,  so  he  went  as  a  lecturer  to  the 
French  Societies  in  the  big  cities  of  the  United 
States.  It  was  hard  to  picture  this  big,  weather- 
beaten  soldier  in  such  a  role,  until  he  told  me  the 
subject  of  his  lecture.  It  was  ''The  Soul  of 
France'' — always  the  Soul  of  France,  a  soul 
chivalrous,  grand  and  unconquerable,  that  would 
forever  make  the  world  remember  and  expect. 

In  Boston  he  had  tried  to  speak  in  English, 
at  the  Boston  City  Club.  He  pronounced  the  let- 
ter '4"  in  city,  as  in  the  word  ''site."  He  told 
me  the  lecture  in  English  was  very  funny.  Per- 
haps it  was ;  but  the  Boston  City  Club  had  not  seen 
their  lecturer  in  the  forest  of  Lorraine.  They  did 
not  know  that  he  was  d'Artagnan. 

After  tea  he  showed  us  the  park  made  by  his 
soldiers  in  front  of  his  "villa,"  as  the  semi- 
underground  hut  was  called.    A  sign  painted  on 


238  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

a  tree  announced  the  ^^Parc  des  Braves.'*  Little 
well-groomed  paths  wound  among  the  pine 
needles;  rustic  seats  were  built  about  the  trees. 
A  dozen  little  beds  of  mountain  flowers  made  gay 
stars  and  crescents  that  would  not  have  disgraced 
the  Tuileries.  The  '^Parc  des  Braves''  had  even 
an  aviar}^,  made  of  wire  netting  (left  over  from 
the  barricades)  built  about  a  tree.  D'Artagnan 
proudly  pointed  out  a  great  owl  and  a  cowering 
cuckoo  in  different  compartments  of  this  unique 
cage. 

But  the  chef  d'oeuvre  of  the  Pare  was  the  recon- 
structed tableau  of  one  of  the  brigade's  heroic 
episodes.  A  tiny  rustic  bridge  spanned  a  minia- 
ture brook;  beside  the  brook  was  built  a  mill  and 
beyond  was  an  old  farm-house  and  orchard. 
Seven  tiny  French  chasseurs,  of  wood  and  painted 
blue,  were  holding  the  bridge  against  a  horde  of 
wooden  Germans  painted  gray. 

On  a  great  tree  shading  this  story  of  a  glorious 
hour  in  the  history  of  his  'kittle  braves," 
d'Artagnan  had  fixed  a  wooden  slab,  telling  its 
details  in  verse. 

*'I1  y  avait  sept  petits  chasseurs 
Qui  ne  connaissaient  pas  la  peur." 
(There  were  seven  little  chasseurs 
Who  knew  no  fear.) 


THE  SOUL  OF  FRANCE  239 

That  is  the  way  the  story  began ;  and  each  verse 
began  and  ended  with  the  same  words.  I  wish  I 
could  have  copied  it  all;  but  d'Artagnan,  the 
author,  was  impatient  to  move  on. 

So  we  left  the  Pare  and  followed  into  the  gloom 
of  the  forest  and  up  the  steep  slope  of  the  moun- 
tain. It  faced  the  enemy's  trenches.  From  the 
top  one  could  look  across  the  frontier  of  Germany. 

D'Artagnan  was  silent  now,  plunging  along 
through  the  deepening  twilight.  Suddenly  we 
emerged  on  the  edge  of  a  clearing  still  bright  with 
sunshine :  a  clearing  perhaps  several  hundred  feet 
square,  lying  on  the  steep  hillside  almost  at  an 
angle  of  about  forty-five  degrees. 

D'Artagnan  stopped,  took  off  his  helmet,  then 
walked  slowly  into  the  open.  We  took  off  our 
hats  and  followed  him. 

The  clearing  was  a  military  cemetery — ^it  held 
the  graves  of  d'Artagnan 's  dead.  A  tall  white 
wooden  cross  at  the  top  rose  almost  to  the  tops 
of  the  pines  growing  above  it.  On  the  cross- 
piece  was  written: 

**To  our  comrades  of  the  — th  Brigade,  killed 
by  the  enemy." 

At  the  foot  of  the  great  cross,  stretched  in 
military  alignment  over  the  clearing  were 
hundreds  of  graves  headed  by  little  crosses.     So 


240  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

abrupt  was  the  slope  the  dead  soldiers  stood 
almost  erect — facing  Germany.  Narrow  grav- 
eled walks  separated  them,  and  on  each  cross 
hung  festoons  of  flowers  kept  always  fresh  by  the 
comrades  who  remained. 

We  followed  d  'Artagnan  across  the  silent  place 
and  stood  behind  him  as  he  faced,  with  bared 
head,  the  great  cross.  He  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  upon  his  breast.  There  was  not  a  bowed 
head:  we  all  lifted  them  high  to  read  the  words 
written  there. 

No  one  spoke;  the  wind  rustled  softly  in  the 
tops  of  the  pines  that  pressed  so  densely  about  us. 
It  was  dark  among  the  trees,  but  the  clearing  was 
still  mellow  with  the  fading  sunlight. 

^^The  sun  always  comes  here  first  in  the  morn- 
ing,'' d 'Artagnan  said  softly,  '^and  this  is  the 
last  place  from  which  it  goes." 

He  swung  around  with  his  back  to  the  great 
cross  and  flung  out  his  alpenstock  in  a  gesture 
that  swept  the  valley  before  us.  His  voice  rose 
harshly : 

**Over  there  is  the  enemy,"  he  thundered. 
''Those  who  rest  here  look  at  them  face  to  face!" 

His  arm  dropped ;  his  voice  sank. 

*'They  didn't  get  over  there.     But  their  souls 


THE  SOUL  OF  FRANCE  241 

remain  here  always  to  urge  us  and  to  point  the 
way  which  we  must  go. ' ' 

He  stopped  and  seemed  to  listen.  The  wind 
had  died ;  even  the  tree  tops  were  still.  The  sun 
had  gone;  the  dark  began  to  sweep  up  over  the 
graves.  D'Artagnan  leaned  upon  his  alpenstock; 
his  eyes  were  closed. 

We  did  not  stir,  nor  hardly  breathe.  D'Arta- 
gnan  was  in  communion  with  the  soul  of  his  be- 
loved France. 


PAET  FIVE 
THREE  CHAPTERS  IN  CONCLUSION 


CHAPTER  XX 

A   REAKPOST   OF   WAR 

After  a  year  or  more  of  war,  even  a  latter-day 
war  correspondent  wlio  gets  a  personally 
restricted  war  office  Cook's  tour  to  the  front  semi- 
occasionally,  may  yearn  for  peace.  This  is 
especially  true  in  the  case  of  a  regular  corre- 
spondent with  the  French  army,  because  to  France 
there  come  so  many  senators,  statesmen  and 
^*molders  of  neutral  opinion, '^  bearing  letters 
from  President,  King  or  Prelate,  that  the  regular 
correspondent  has  hard  work  to  edge  in  even  his 
legitimate  number  of  tours. 

One  morning  I  awoke  early,  far  from  the  firing 
line,  safe  in  my  Paris  flat.  Before  breakfast  I 
read  the  hotel  arrivals  listed  in  the  newspaper. 
The  names  of  several  molders  were  there.  I 
knew  that  all  their  letters  stated  definitely  what 
whales  they  were.  I  knew  that  the  tour  directors 
would  not  be  able  to  resist  them  and  that  my  seat 
in  the  next  front-going  limousine  would  probably 
be  held  in  another  name.     So  in  the  words  of  the 

245 


246  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

ancient  British  music-ball  classic  I  decided  that  **I 
didn't  like  war  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

Twelve  hours  later  I  was  standing  on  an  old 
stone  jetty  that  runs  out  to  meet  the  forty-foot 
tides  on  the  north  coast  of  Brittany.  It  was  as 
far  away  as  I  could  get  and  still  retain  an  official 
connection  as  correspondent  with  the  French 
army.  The  tiny  hamlet  at  the  end  of  the  jetty 
has  an  official  name.  The  name  does  not  matter. 
There  is  no  railroad,  no  post  office,  no  telegraph. 
But  the  place  is  known  because  it  was  there  that 
Pierre  Loti  wrote  his  great  story  of  the  Iceland 
Fisherman.  There  was  nothing  to  disturb  the 
thoughts,  nothing  to  jar  the  nerves.  All  was 
quiet  and  peace ;  of  war  there  was  not  the  slightest 
suspicion. 

The  water  at  the  end  of  the  jetty  was  thirty 
feet  deep,  but  so  clean  that  one  could  see  through 
it  as  through  air.  I  watched  a  crab  waddle  along 
the  bottom  and  disappear  under  a  rock.  Then 
I  got  out  my  army  glasses  and  swept  the  coast. 
For  miles  tremendous  headlands  stuck  out  in  the 
sea,  rolling  over  treacherous  rocks.  Before  me 
was  the  He  de  Brehat,  the  ancient  home  of  the 
pirates,  which  thrusts  an  arm  far  out  into  the 
Atlantic — an  arm  that  holds  a  lighthouse  to  tell 


A  REARPOST  OF  WAR  247 

mariners  returning  from  Iceland  that  they  are 
almost  home. 

Between  the  island  and  the  mainland  the  out- 
going tide  swirled  along  at  a  rate  of  twelve  sea 
miles  per  hour.  I  turned  the  glasses  to  the  coast 
where  the  tiny  Breton  stone  cottages  were  tucked 
behind  rocks  and  hills  that  shelter  them  from 
storms  and  the  long  and  terrible  winter.  Now 
they  were  bowers  of  color;  clusters  of  roses  and 
geraniums  bloomed  on  garden  walls,  tall  holly- 
hocks stood  sentinel  before  the  doors. 

I  dropped  the  glasses  and  sighed  contentedly. 
Here  I  had  found  peace. 

Near  the  old  stone  jetty  a  man  was  swimming. 
Suddenly  he  sat  bolt  upright  on  the  water.  His 
legs  spread  straight  before  him  and  his  hands 
flapped  idly  at  little  waves.  Occasionally  he 
tugged  at  a  long  drooping  walrus  mustache,  then 
rubbed  the  salt  spray  from  his  lips.  He  was  a 
long  angular  individual  and  from  my  position  on 
the  jetty  he  appeared  to  be  entirely  unclad. 

**He  is  sitting  on  the  top  of  a  rock  that  is 
flooded  at  high  tide, ' '  some  one  near  me  remarked. 
As  the  words  were  spoken,  the  bather  flopped 
from  his  place  and  swam  toward  us.  He  was 
puffing  heavily  when  he  grasped  the  stone  side 


248  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

of  the  jetty  and  pulled  biinsell*  up.  I  then  saw 
that  I  was  mistaken  as  to  his  nudity,  for  he  wore 
the  strangest  bathing  costume  that  I  had  ever 
beheld.  It  consisted  of  white  cotton  trunks  about 
eight  inches  wide.  On  one  side,  embroidered  in 
yellow  silk  was  a  vision  of  the  rising  sun;  skin 
tight  against  the  other  side  was  a  blue  pansy. 

I  was  fascinated,  and  watched  the  man  trudge 
up  the  winding  road  that  led  from  the  jetty.  A 
ray  of  the  lowering  sun  flashed  on  the  embroidered 
pansy  rapidly  drying  against  his  flanks  as  he  dis- 
appeared in  the  doorway  of  a  cottage.  I  turned 
to  an  old  fisherman  who  was  puttering  about  a 
sail  boat : 

**It  looks  Japanezy,  that  bathing  suit,''  I  said. 
The  old  man  puffed  at  his  pipe;  *'No;  his  wife 
made  it,"  he  replied.  **He  wrote  to  her  that  he 
had  learned  to  swim  so  she  made  it  and  sent  it  up 
to  him.  He  had  never  seen  the  ocean  before  he 
came  here.    He  is  from  the  Midi. ' ' 

**Ah,''  I  replied,  ^^and  what  did  he  wear  before 
she  sent  it?'' 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  ^*  About 
here,  you  know,  it  doesn't  much  matter  about  bath- 
ing suits.     There  aren't  many  folks  about." 

**Who  is  he?"  I  asked.  ^*Is  he  a  summer 
visitor?" 


A  REARPOST  OF  WAR  249 

'*  Summer  visitor!^'  the  old  man  gasped. 
^*  Summer  visitor — why  he  hates  this  place  and 
everything  in  it.  He  only  learned  to  swim 
because  he  had  nothing  else  to  do  and  because 
he  hates  it  so.'* 

*  *  Hates  it ! "  I  ejaculated.  *  ^  Well,  why  on  earth 
is  he  here  then!'' 

^*He's  here  because  he's  got  to  be  here,"  the 
old  chap  replied.  *^He's  mobilized  here.  He's 
a  soldier!" 

A  cigarette  that  I  had  just  taken  from  its  case, 
fell  from  my  nerveless  fingers  into  the  water  and 
swirled  out  with  the  tide. 

A  soldier — a  soldier  in  my  retreat.  How 
unspeakably  annoying.  And  in  that  bathing  suit 
I  never  would  have  suspected  him  at  all. 

The  old  fisherman  explained,  while  I  lugubri- 
ously leaned  over  the  jetty  and  watched  that  crab 
puddling  about  his  rock.  There  were  eleven  more 
of  them — soldiers,  I  mean — they  all  lived  in  the 
little  cottage  near  the  jetty.  They  were  there  to 
guard  the  cable  between  the  mainland  and  the 
He  de  Brehat,  two  miles  away.  They  guarded  it 
the  twenty-four  hours  of  the  day — those  twelve. 
Every  two  hours  one  of  them  momited  guard 
where  the  cable  comes  up  from  the  sea  and  sol- 
emnly guarded  it  from  German  attack. 


250  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

The  old  fislierman  pointed  behind  me.  I  turned 
and  there,  even  as  he  had  explained,  I  saw  a  man 
in  the  blue  coat  and  red  pants  of  the  French 
territorial  army.  From  the  trenches  the  red 
pants  have  gone  into  the  historic  past.  Nowadays 
the  red  pants  are  only  for  the  territorials. 

This  particular  cable  sentry  was  also  from  the 
Midi,  my  fisherman  explained.  He  too  disliked 
the  sea.  He  sat  there  and  stared  moodily  into 
the  sun  that  was  just  in  the  act  of  gloriously 
descending  into  the  water.  A  last  ray  caught  the 
steel  bayonet  of  the  Lebel  rifle  lying  across  his 
knees. 

I  left  the  jetty  and  walked  up  the  winding  road 
to  the  village.  I  went  to  the  single  store  to  buy 
tobacco  and  to  hear  the  talk  of  the  people. 
There  were  no  newspapers,  I  thought,  so  their  talk 
could  not  be  about  the  war.  Also  there  I  would 
avoid  the  sight  of  the  soldiers,  because  the  store 
had  liquor  on  its  list  of  commodities.  It  is  for- 
bidden to  soldiers  to  enter  such  places  except  at 
certain  hours. 

A  fresh-faced  Breton  girl  served  out  the 
tobacco.  Cigars  at  two  cents  each  were  the  most 
expensive  tobacco  purchase  in  the  shop.  I  pur- 
chased a  dozen  and  immediately  became  a  celebrity 
and  a  millionaire.     We  talked.     I  asked  her  about 


A  REARPOST  OF  WAR  251 

the  countryside,  about  the  people  and  about  the 
wonderful  lace  coiffures  of  the  peasant  women. 
She  told  me  how  the  women  of  one  hamlet  wear 
an  entirely  different  *'coif  from  those  even  of 
the  neighboring  farms  and  that  throughout  Brit- 
tany there  are  hundreds  of  different  styles. 

Then  I  asked  her  about  the  men  folks,  the  few 
who  work  in  the  fields  and  the  great  majority  who 
go  off  in  the  boats  to  Iceland  in  the  spring  and 
come  back  ten  months  later — those  who  ever  do 
come  back  at  all.  Then  quite  naturally  we  talked 
about  the  war.  For  she  explained  that  to  her 
people  the  war  was  not  so  terrible  as  the  times 
of  peace.  Then  it  was  impossible  to  get  letters 
from  a  fishiilg  schooner  off  the  Iceland  banks — 
now  it  was  quite  easy  to  get  letters  from  the 
trenches  every  few  days.  The  men  suffered  far 
greater  losses  from  the  perils  of  the  northern 
ocean  than  since  they  were  all  mobilized  to  fight 
the  Germans.  Some  were  killed — that  was  nat- 
ural enough — ^but  not  half  so  many  as  the  num- 
ber who  just  sailed  out  and  disappeared. 

I  was  beginning  to  feel  that  perhaps  the  war 
was  a  benefit  to  this  part  of  the  world. 

An  old  woman  entered  the  store  to  buy  tobacco. 
She  was  bent  and  withered  and  her  hand  trembled 
as  she  drew  the  few  coppers  from  her  purse.    Her 


252  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

voice  was  high  and  quavery  when  she  spoke  to 
the  girl.  She  said  that  her  son  had  just  been 
wounded  near  Verdun.  His  condition  was  des- 
perate, but  they  were  bringing  him  home — to  her 
— to  die  on  the  old  Brittany  farm,  on  the  hillside 
overlooking  the  sea. 

*^Ah,  la  guerre/'  she  murmured,  ^^c'est  ter- 
rible.'^ 

She  explained  that  her  other  boys  had  been  lost 
on  a  fishing  schooner  five  years  ago.  She  had 
tried  to  keep  this  one — had  wanted  him  so  much 
and  tried  so  hard.  But  if  she  could  see  him  again 
it  would  be  better.  She  sighed  and  tucked  purse 
and  tobacco  under  her  apron  and  clattered  out  on 
her  heavy  wooden  sabots — her  head 'bowed  under 
her  years  and  her  woe.  ^^C'est  pour  la  patrie,'* 
she  murmured  as  she  passed  through  the  door. 

The  next  day  was  a  Sunday.  On  Sunday  all 
Brittany  goes  to  church,  and  when  one  is  in  Brit- 
tany— ^well,  one  goes  to  church  too.  After  the 
service  I  walked  through  the  churchyard,  which  is 
also  the  graveyard  of  the  village.  It  was  so  quiet, 
so  restful  and  far  removed  from  the  world  and 
the  war,  that  I  was  content  to  remain  there,  for 
the  eleven  soldiers  not  guarding  the  cable  were 
disporting  themselves  on  the  beach. 

I  found  a  wonderful  old  wall  at  one  end  of  the 


A  REARPOST  OF  WAR  253 

graveyard.  It  was  very  old  and  overgrown  with 
moss  and  ivy.  It  was  a  dozen  feet  high  and 
crumbling  in  places.  I  did  not  know  then  that 
the  waU  was  one  of  the  sights  of  that  countryside, 
but  I  did  know  when  I  saw  it  that  I  was  look- 
ing upon  the  record  of  mighty  tragedies.  For  it 
was  covered  over  with  little  slabs,  sometimes 
almost  lost  to  view  under  the  climbing  vines.  On 
the  slabs  were  written  the  names  of  the  men  of 
the  village  who  had  gone  to  sea  and  never  been 
heard  of  again.  The  dates  were  all  there  and 
the  names  of  the  ships.  On  several  were  the 
names  of  two  or  more  brothers — on  another  slab 
were  listed  the  males  of  three  generations  of  one 
house.  There  were  hundreds  of  names,  the  dates 
going  back  nearly  a  hundred  years.  Over  many 
slabs  with  more  recent  dates  were  hung  wreaths 
of  flowers. 

It  is  called  the  wall  of  the  disappeared. 

I  read  all  the  slabs  with  keenest  interest;  this 
record  of  toll  taken  by  an  element  more  resistless 
even  than  war.  Indeed  the  battles  of  the  nations 
seemed  puny  against  the  evidences  of  inexorable 
might  written  on  the  wall  of  the  disappeared. 

Near  the  end  of  the  wall  a  woman  was  praying. 
She  was  all  in  black,  with  the  huge  Breton  widow's 
cowl  drawn  over  her  head,  so  that  she  looked  like 


254  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

a  witch  in  Macbeth.  Above  her  head  I  noticed  a 
freshly  painted  slab  newly  fixed  in  the  wall  I 
read  the  inscription  over  her  shoulder.  The  date 
was  September,  1915.  Instead  of  the  name  of  a 
fishing  boat  that  went  to  pieces  in  a  gale  off  Ice- 
land, was  recorded  the  man^s  regiment,  followed 
by  his  name  and  the  words,  **  disappeared  in  the 
battle  of  the  Mame." 

The  morning  following  I  awoke  early,  with  the 
sun  and  the  sea  sparkling  at  my  window.  I  got 
into  a  regulation  bathing  suit  and  rushed  down 
the  old  stone  jetty  for  a  plunge  before  breakfast. 
The  water  was  so  fresh — so  full  of  life — the  day 
was  so  wonderful — that  I  forgot  all  about  the 
twelve  soldiers,  the  old  woman  whose  wounded 
son  was  coming  home  to  die,  the  soldier  of  the 
battle  of  the  Mame  whose  name  was  on  the  wall 
of  the  disappeared. 

There  was  no  such  thing  as  war  as  I  dived  off 
the  jetty's  end,  deep  into  the  cold,  clean  water.  I 
opened  my  eyes  under  the  water  and  could  see 
the  rocks  on  the  bottom,  still  many  feet  below. 

Suddenly  a  roar  struck  my  ears  and  I  struck 
up  to  the  surface.  I  knew  how  sound  travels 
under  water;  and  I  knew  this  sound.  It  was  a 
dull,  terrifying  boom.  I  rubbed  the  salt  from  my 
eyes  and  looked  across  the  straits  to  the  He  de 


A  REARPOST  OF  WAR  255 

Brehat.  Crouched  under  the  towering  rocks  of 
the  island,  and  lying  low  in  the  water,  was  an  ugly 
black  torpedo  destroyer  flying  the  tricolor.  A 
cruiser  flying  the  Union  Jack,  her  masts  just  visi- 
ble across  a  far  reach  of  the  island,  was  picking 
her  way  slowly  through  the  channel.  The  sound 
was  a  signal  gun. 

I  floated  on  the  water  and  looked  up  at  the  sky. 
Up  there,  perhaps,  is  peace,  I  thought;  and  then 
I  glanced  hastily  about  for  aeroplanes. 

As  for  this  village,  my  thoughts  continued,  this 
insignificant  village  of  L'Arcouest,  par  Ploubaz- 
lanec.  Cotes  du  Nord,  Brittany — that  is  the  sono- 
rous official  address  of  my  tiny  hamlet  by  the  sea — 
why  even  if  it  is  not  in  the  ^^zone  of  military 
activity,''  it  has  all  the  elements  that  war  brings, 
from  the  faded  uniforms  of  blue  and  red  to  the 
black  mouths  of  cannon.  It  has  all  the  anxiety, 
all  the  sorrow,  all  the  hopes  and  all  the  prayers. 
It  has  all  the  zeal  and  all  the  despair.  All  the 
horror  and  all  the  pomp  and  empty  glory.  It 
may  only  be  a  rearpost — ^way  out  where  Europe 
kneels  to  the  Atlantic — and  where  one  can  pray 
for  peace.    But  war  is  there,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MYTHS 

The  European  war  zone  at  the  beginning  of 
hostilities  was  as  busy  a  fable  factory  as  were  San 
Juan  and  Santiago  during  the  Spanish-American 
conflict  when  '^yellow  journalism''  was  supposed 
to  have  reached  its  zenith.  It  was  a  great  pity, 
for  the  truth  of  the  European  war  is  stupendous 
enough.  Newspaper  myths  and  yellow  faking 
have  never  had  less  excuse.  In  many  cases  it 
may  take  years  to  properly  classify  the  facts. 

Not  all  of  the  myths  have  been  deliberate  ones. 
At  the  outbreak  of  the  war  rumor  followed 
rumor  so  swiftly,  and  was  so  often  attested  by 
the  statements  of  ** eye-witnesses,"  that  inevitably 
it  was  transformed  en  route  from  fancy  into  fact. 
Sometimes  a  tense  public  itself  raised  definitely 
labeled  rumors  to  the  rank  of  official  communica- 
tions. In  a  few  instances  war.  correspondents 
have  deliberately  faked. 

The  censorship,  generally  unintelligent,  some- 
times incredibly  stupid,  is  responsible  for  a  great 
many  myths.     * '  Beating  the  censor ' '  was  a  gleeful 

256 


MYTHS  257 

game  for  some  correspondents  until  it  became 
clear  that  the  censor  always  held  the  winning 
hand,  and  that  he  could  even  suppress  their  activi- 
ties altogether.  The  '^half  truths''  of  the  official 
communications  have  also  been  responsible  for 
much  jSavoring  of  the  real  news  with  fiction. 

The  similarity  in  names  of  the  river  Sambre 
and  Somme,  the  one  being  in  Belgium  and  the 
other  in  France,  undoubtedly  had  much  to  do  with 
the  wording  of  the  French  communiques  when 
France  was  first  invaded.  Day  after  day  the  des- 
patches laconically  referred  to  ^*the  fighting  on 
the  Sambre.''  Then  one  Sunday  morning,  when 
it  was  considered  impossible  to  keep  back  the  truth 
much  longer,  a  casual  communique  mentioned  the 
fighting  line  **on  the  Somme."  The  press  of  the 
world,  which  had  been  deliberately  kept  in  the 
dark  for  days,  can  scarcely  be  blamed  for  losing 
its  head  a  trifle  and  printing  scare  headlines 
unprecedented  since  news  became  a  commodity. 

The  greatest  of  all  war  fakes,  and  one  that  had 
not  the  slightest  foundation  of  truth,  is  the  story 
of  the  Eussian  army  rushed  from  Archangel  to 
Scotland,  thence  through  England  to  France  to 
aid  at  the  battle  of  the  Marne.  This  story  is 
entirely  discredited  to-day,  but  it  died  hard,  and 
no  wonder,  for  there  never  was  a  story  with  so 


258  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

many  ^^eye  witnesses/'  so  much  "absolute  proof 
of  its  authenticity.  From  the  highlands  of  Scot- 
land to  the  hamlets  of  Brittany  peasants  were 
awakened  at  night  by  the  tramp  of  marching  feet. 
Upon  investigation  the  Cossacks  of  the  Czar  were 
revealed  hurrying  on  their  way  to  the  western  bat- 
tle line.  I  have  never  heard  where  the  story 
originated,  but  every  correspondent  with  the 
Allied  forces  believed  it.  A  friend  living  near  a 
French  seaport  whose  honesty  I  can  not  question, 
wrote  to  me  telling  in  detail  of  the  landing  of  an 
entire  Russian  army  corps.  I  talked  with  officers 
of  both  the  English  and  French  armies  who  swore 
to  a  definite  knowledge  that  Russians  were  then 
in  France  and  would  soon  be  fighting  in  the  front 
line.  To  my  recollection  the  story  was  never 
denied,  and  only  the  fact  that  the  Russians  never 
did  reach  that  front  line  where  they  were  so 
eagerly  awaited,  brought  the  story  into  the  classi- 
fication where  it  belonged. 

Another  great  fake,  but  different  from  this  one 
in  that  it  had  a  slight  foundation  of  truth,  is  the 
story  of  the  French  taxicab  army  under  General 
Gallieni,  that  swept  out  of  Paris  forty  to  eighty 
thousand  strong  (accounts  differed)  and  which 
fell  on  the  flank  of  the  Germans  and  saved  the 
city.     This  story  became  the  most  popular  of  the 


MYTHS  259 

entire  war,  and  it  is  still  implicitly  believed  by 
thousands  of  persons.  I  saw  that  taxicab  army 
and  am  therefore  able  to  state  that  about  ninety 
per  cent,  of  the  story  written  about  it  is  fiction. 
The  ten  per  cent,  fact  is  that  the  army  of  General 
Manoury  was  in  process  of  formation  for  days 
before  the  battle  of  the  Marne.  The  troops  were 
sent  around  and  through  Paris  to  occupy  a  posi- 
tion west  of  Compiegne.  I  watched  thousands  of 
them,  the  Senegalese  division,  march  through 
Paris  on  foot  during  the  latter  days  of  August, 
1914.  It  was  the  methodical,  though  hasty,  crea- 
tion by  the  General  Staff  of  a  new  army.  At 
the  same  time  the  General  Staff  was  conducting, 
under  General  Joffre,  the  great  retreat  from 
Charleroi. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  battle  of  the  Marne  a 
few  regiments  were  still  in  Paris.  The  Military 
Governor,  General  Gallieni,  was  instructed  to  rush 
them  north  by  any  means  available.  The 
northern  railways  were  in  German  hands,  and  the 
only  way  was  to  send  them  in  taxicabs.  So  many 
chauffeurs  had  been  mobilized  that  Paris  had  then 
probably  not  more  than  two  thousand  taxis.  At 
the  tightest  squeeze  not  more  than  four  soldiers 
with  heavy  marching  equipment,  could  have  been 
carried  in  one  of  the  small  Paris  taxicabs.    The 


26o  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

taxicab  army,  therefore,  may  have  numbered  four 
regiments,  or  eight  thousand  men,  while  the  real 
figures  may  possibly  be  less.  It  was  not  the  army 
of  Paris  gallantly  rushing  out  to  save  the  city. 
The  army  of  Paris  had  instructions  to  remain  in 
the  city  and  to  defend  it.  The  taxicab  army  was 
a  fine  and  dramatic  piece  of  news,  expanded  to 
fit  the  imagination  of  an  excited  world. 

The  fable  factory  actually  began  operations 
before  the  declaration  of  war,  when  with  the  sud- 
den shortage  of  money,  tales  of  starving  and 
otherwise  suffering  American  tourists  were  cabled 
to  New  York  by  the  yellow  press.  But  the  Paris 
papers,  and  the  general  press,  awaited  mobiliza- 
tion orders  before  becoming  graphic  without  the 
support  of  facts. 

On  the  first  day  of  hostilities  several  papers 
printed  thrilling  details  of  the  airman  Garros  hav- 
ing brought  down  a  Zeppelin.  Garros  was  then 
waiting  for  military  orders  at  his  Paris  apart- 
ment and  laughed  heartily  at  the  story  when  I 
telephoned  to  him. 

Four  times  during  the  first  month  of  the  war 
I  read  of  the  death  of  the  airman  Vedrines.  Six 
months  later  I  met  him  on  one  of  my  trips  to  the 
front.  The  death  of  Max  Linder,  the  comedian, 
was  also  dramatically  related  by  the  Paris  press, 


MYTHS  261 

but  a  few  nights  later  I  found  Linder  on  the  ter- 
rasse  of  a  boulevard  cafe  relating  his  very  live 
adventure  in  getting  there. 

Leaving  out  of  consideration  the  feelings  of  the 
men^s  families  these  were  after  all  comparatively 
harmless  and  unimportant  fakes.  A  more  sinis- 
ter stoiy,  hinted  at  for  weeks  and  finally  openly 
printed,  was  that  a  certain  French  general  had 
been  shot  for  treachery  while  stationed  near  the 
Belgian  frontier.  So  persistent  was  this  report 
that  it  was  finally  necessary  for  Greneral  Joffre 
himself  to  issue  a  statement  that  the  general  in 
question  was  alive  and  well  and  had  merely  been 
removed  to  another  field  of  active  service. 

Of  all  the  fakes  and  all  the  fakirs,  I  believe  the 
French  authorities  will  admit  that  the  greatest 
offenders  have  been  their  own  papers.  The  Eng- 
lish correspondents  were  always  fairly  reliable, 
while  the  accounts  furnished  the  American  papers 
have  received  the  least  criticism  of  all — and  the 
greatest  praise.  The  most  outstanding  example 
of  incorrect  information  appearing  in  the  British 
press  was  a  story  early  in  the  war  that  the  British 
expeditionary  force  had  been  entirely  destroyed. 
It  is  only  just  to  state  that  the  writer  of  the  story 
was  ignorant  of  his  facts  and  not  a  wilful  fakir. 
Nevertheless  he  has  since  been  persona  non  grata 


262  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

in  France  and  has  confined  his  activities  to  the 
Russian  front. 

Not  all  of  the  American  accounts  have  been 
free  from  faking.  One  American  correspondent 
printed  an  '^exclusive  interview'*  with  President 
Poincare  which  he  declared  was  arranged  and  took 
place  on  the  battlefield.  This  story  was  entirely 
false,  the  correspondent  merely  seeing  the  Presi- 
dent reviewing  the  troops,  a  dozen  other  corre- 
spondents having  the  same  privilege. 

The  most  glaring  example  of  inaccuracy  upon 
the  part  of  an  American  writer  was  an  account 
of  the  battle  of  Ypres  which  appeared  in  both 
English  and  American  publications.  This  ac- 
count, giving  the  entire  credit  for  the  victory 
to  the  English,  with  faint  praise  for  the  French, 
was  resented  by  both  the  English  and  French 
officers,  the  former  as  sportsmen  not  wishing 
undue  praise,  and  the  latter  naturally  piqued  that 
a  story  having  such  wide  circulation  should  not 
have  been  based  more  materially  upon  facts. 
This  correspondent  was  later  denied  the  privilege 
of  visiting  the  French  front  and  has  retired  from 
the  zone  of  military  activity. 

Most  of  the  fakes,  as  I  have  shown,  occurred  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war,  or  during  the  first  six 
months,  when  all  the  world  was  in  a  state  of  great 


MYTHS  263 

excitement,  and  when  correspondents,  the  major- 
ity of  whom  had  never  seen  a  war  before,  should 
have  been  forgiven  for  sometimes  letting 
their  imaginations  run  riot.  During  the  past 
twelve  months,  since  organization  has  taken  the 
place  of  chaos  in  so  many  activities  related  to  the 
war,  and  when  correspondents  have  acquired 
experience  and  perspective,  I  know  of  scarcely 
any  cases  of  wilful  misrepresentation  of  the  truth. 
During  the  battle  of  Champagne  in  September, 
1915,  one  correspondent  did  attempt  to  project 
his  astral  body  to  the  battlefield  for  the  purpose 
of  writing  an  ^'eye  witness''  account  of  the  fight- 
ing; but  he  paid  dearly  for  the  indiscretion.  He 
was  at  once  crossed  off  the  official  list  of  corre- 
spondents at  the  French  war  office  and  all  his  cre- 
dentials were  withdrawn  for  the  duration  of  the 
war. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


I  WENT  to  the  Opera  Comique  one  day  to  hear 
Marthe  Chenal  sing  the  *' Marseillaise.''  For 
several  weeks  previous  I  had  heard  a  story  going 
the  rounds  of  what  is  left  of  Paris  life  to  the 
effect  that  if  one  wanted  a  regular  old-fashioned 
thrill  he  really  should  go  to  the  Opera  Comique 
on  a  day  when  Mile.  Chenal  closed  the  perform- 
ance by  singing  the  French  national  hymn.  I  was 
told  there  would  be  difficulty  in  securing  a  seat. 

I  was  rather  skeptical.  I  also  considered  that 
I  had  had  sufficient  thrills  since  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  both  old-fashioned  and  new.  I  believed 
also  that  I  had  already  heard  the  ** Marseillaise'' 
sung  under  the  best  possible  circumstances  to  pro- 
duce thrills.  One  of  the  first  nights  after  mobili- 
zation 10,000  Frenchmen  filled  the  street  beneath 
the  windows  of  the  New  York  Times  office  where 
I  was  at  work.  They  sang  the  *' Marseillaise" 
for  two  hours,  with  a  solemn  hatred  of  their  na- 
tional enemy  sounding  in  every  note.     The  so- 

264 


WHEN  CHENAL  SINGS  265 

lemnity  changed  to  a  wild  passion  as  the  night 
wore  on.  Finally,  cuirassiers  of  the  guard  rode 
through  the  street  to  disperse  the  mob.  It  was  a 
terrific  scene. 

So  I  was  willing  to  admit  that  the  *^  Marseil- 
laise^' is  probably  the  most  thrilling  and  most 
martial  national  song  ever  written,  but  I  was  just 
not  keen  on  the  subject  of  thrills. 

Then  one  day  a  sedate  friend  went  to  the  Opera 
Comique  and  it  was  a  week  before  his  ardor  sub- 
sided. He  declared  that  this  rendition  of  a  song 
was  something  that  will  be  referred  to  in  future 
years.  ''Why,''  he  said,  ''when  the  war  is  over 
the  French  will  talk  about  it  in  the  way  Ameri- 
cans still  talk  about  Jenny  Lind  at  Castle  Garden, 
or  De  Wolf  Hopper  reciting  'Casey  at  the  Bat.'  " 

This  induced  me  to  go.  I  was  convinced  that 
whether  I  got  a  thrill  or  not  the  singing  of  the 
"Marseillaise"  by  Chenal  had  become  a  distinct 
feature  of  Paris  life  during  the  war. 

I  never  want  to  go  again.  To  go  again  might 
deepen  my  impression — might  better  register  the 
thrill.  But  then  it  might  not  be  just  the  same. 
I  would  be  keyed  to  such  expectancy  that  I  might 
be  disappointed.  Persons  in  the  seats  behind  me 
might  whisper.  And  just  as  Chenal  got  to  the 
"Amour   sacre  de  la  patrie"   some   one   might 


266  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

cough.  I  am  coniSdent  that  something  of  the  sort 
would  surely  happen.  I  want  always  to  remem- 
ber that  ten  minutes  while  Chenal  was  on  the 
stage  just  as  I  remember  it  now.  So  I  will  not 
go  again. 

The  first  part  of  the  performance  was  Doni- 
zetti's ^^ Daughter  of  the  Regiment/'  beautifully 
sung  by  members  of  the  regular  company.  But 
somehow  the  spectacle  of  a  fat  soprano  nearing 
forty  in  the  role  of  the  twelve-year-old  vivandiere, 
although  impressive,  was  not  sublime.  A  third 
of  the  audience  were  soldiers.  In  the  front  row 
of  the  top  balcony  were  a  number  of  wounded. 
Their  bandaged  heads  rested  against  the  rail. 
Several  of  them  yawned. 

After  the  operetta  came  a  *^  Ballet  of  the  Na- 
tions." The  *' nations,"  of  course,  represented 
the  Allies.  We  had  the  delectable  vision  of  the 
Russian  ballerina  dancing  with  arms  entwined 
about  several  maids  of  Japan.  The  Scotch  las- 
sies wore  violent  blue  jackets.  The  Belgian  girls 
carried  large  pitchers  and  rather  wept  and 
watered  their  way  about  the  stage.  There  were 
no  thrills. 

After  the  intermission  there  was  not  even  avail- 
able space.  The  majority  of  the  women  were  in 
black — the  prevailing  color  in  these  days.     The 


MDLLE.    CHENAL    SINGING    THE    MARSEILLAISE 


WHEN  CHENAL  SINGS  267 

only  touches  of  brightness  and  light  were  in  the 
uniforms  of  the  officers  liberally  sprinkled  through 
the  orchestra  and  boxes. 

Then  came  ^^Le  Chant  du  Depart, '^  the  famous 
song  of  the  Revolution.  The  scene  was  a  little 
country  village.  The  principals  were  the  officer, 
the  soldier,  the  wife,  the  mother,  the  daughter  and 
the  drummer  boy.  There  was  a  magnificent  sol- 
dier chorus  and  the  fanfare  of  drums  and 
trumpets.  The  audience  then  became  honestly 
enthusiastic.  I  concluded  that  the  best  Chenal 
could  do  with  the  ^^Marseillaise,"  which  was  next 
on  the  program,  would  be  an  anti-climax. 

The  orchestra  played  the  opening  bars  of  the 
martial  music.  "With  the  first  notes  the  vast 
audience  rose.  I  looked  up  at  the  row  of 
wounded  leaning  heavily  against  the  rail,  their 
eyes  fixed  and  staring  on  the  curtain.  I  noticed 
the  officers  in  the  boxes,  their  eyes  glistening.  I 
heard  a  convulsive  catch  in  the  throats  of  persons 
about  me.     Then  the  curtain  lifted. 

I  do  not  remember  what  was  the  stage  setting. 
I  do  not  believe  I  saw  it.  All  I  remember  was 
Chenal  standing  at  the  top  of  a  short  flight  of 
steps,  in  the  center  near  the  back  drop.  I  indis- 
tinctly remember  that  the  rest  of  the  stage  was 
filled  with  the  soldier  chorus  and  that  near  the 


268  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

footlights  on  either  side  were  clusters  of  little 
children. 

^*Up,  sons  of  France,  the  call  of  glory — *' 
Chenal  swept  down  to  the  footlights.  The 
words  of  the  song  swept  over  the  audience  like 
a  bugle  call.  The  singer  wore  a  white  silk  gown 
draped  in  perfect  Grecian  folds.  She  wore  the 
large  black  Alsatian  head  dress,  in  one  corner  of 
which  was  pinned  a  small  tricolored  cockade. 
She  has  often  been  called  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  Paris.  The  description  was  too  lim- 
ited. With  the  next  lines  she  threw  her  arms 
apart,  drawing  out  the  folds  of  the  gown  into  the 
tricolor  of  France — heavy  folds  of  red  silk  draped 
over  one  arm  and  blue  over  the  other.  Her  head 
was  thrown  back.  Her  tall,  slender  fignre  simply 
vibrated  with  the  feeling  of  the  words  that  poured 
forth  from  her  lips.  She  was  noble.  She  was 
glorious.  She  was  sublime.  With  the  **  March 
on,  march  on,'*  of  the  chorus,  her  voice  arose  high 
and  fine  over  the  full  orchestra,  and  even  above 
her  voice  could  be  sensed  the  surging  emotions 
of  the  audience  that  seemed  to  sweep  over  the 
house  in  waves. 

I  looked  up  at  the  row  of  wounded.     One  man 
held  his  bandaged  head  between  his  hands  and 


WHEN  CHENAL  SINGS  269 

was  crying.  An  officer  in  a  box,  wearing  the  gor- 
geous uniform  of  the  headquarters  staff,  held  a 
handkerchief  over  his  eyes. 

Through  the  second  verse  the  audience  alter- 
nately cheered  and  stamped  their  feet  and  wept. 
Then  came  the  wonderful  ^^  Amour  sacre  de  la 
patrie '  ^ — sacred  love  of  home  and  country — verse. 
The  crashing  of  the  orchestra  ceased,  dying  away 
almost  to  a  whisper.  Chenal  drew  the  folds  of 
the  tricolor  cloak  about  her.  Then  she  bent  her 
head  and,  drawing  the  flag  to  her.  lips,  kissed  it 
reverently.  The  first  words  came  like  a  sob  from 
her  soul.  From  then  until  the  end  of  the  verse, 
when  her  voice  again  rang  out  over  the  renewed 
efforts  of  the  orchestra,  one  seemed  to  live 
through  all  the  glorious  history  of  France.  At 
the  very  end,  when  Chenal  drew  a  short  jeweled 
sword  from  the  folds  of  her  gown  and  stood, 
silent  and  superb,  with  the  folds  of  the  flag- 
draped  around  her,  while  the  curtain  rang  slowly 
down,  she  seemed  to  typify  both  Empire  and  Re- 
public throughout  all  time.  All  the  best  of  the 
past  seemed  concentrated  there  as  that  glorious 
woman,  with  head  raised  high,  looked  into  the 
future. 

And  as  I  came  out  of  the  theater  with  the  silent 


270  PASSED  BY  THE  CENSOR 

audience  I  said  to  myself  that  a  nation  with  a 
song  and  a  patriotism  such  as  I  had  witnessed 
could  not  vanish  from  the  earth — nor  again  be 
vanquished. 


THE    END 


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NOTE 

The  attached  map  of  the  **  Front  d'Artois"  is  the  first 
of  the  kind  ever  presented  to  the  public.  The  author  of 
this  book  has  been  specially  authorized  to  reproduce  it 
by  the  French  Ministry  of  War,  under  whose  direction 
it  was  first  executed  from  photographs  by  French  air- 
men taken  on  their  trips  over  the  German  lines. 

It  bears  the  date  September  25,  1915,  that  being  the 
day  when  the  great  offensive  was  launched  against  the 
Germans  both  in  Artois  and  Champagne.  On  that  oc- 
casion the  map  was  given  only  to  French  officers. 

The  heavy  blue  zigzag  line  shows  the  front  line  of  the 
German  trenches.  The  thin  blue  lines  running  to  the 
rear  show  the  communication  trenches  extending  back 
to  the  second  and  even  the  third  lines  of  defense.  The 
French  trenches  are  naturally  not  shown,  but  were  to 
the  west  of  the  Germans,  in  some  places  not  over  fifteen 
yards  of  barbed  wire  entanglements  separating  them. 
At  the  time  of  the  September  attack  all  these  trenches 
were  captured  by  the  French. 

The  Artois  front,  which  is  often  called  *'the  sector 
north  of  Arras,  * '  is  one  of  the  most  important  on  the  en- 
tire line,  inasmuch  as  the  army  holding  the  plateau  holds 
also  the  key  to  the  channel  ports.  The  bloodiest  and 
most  desperate  battles  of  the  war  have  occurred  there. 


